Feral
by The Duchess Of The Dark
Summary: James Logan & Victor Creed have been inducted to Stryker's 'Special Task Force'. The brothers are startled to find the newest team member is a feral, just like them. This causes tension as the latest addition is female. Ties in with my other X-men fic.
1. Chapter 1

The coffee in the stained pot looked, and smelt, like it had been there for at least 3 days. Logan gave it a cursory sniff and decided not to risk it. He settled for a can of soda from the small, noisy cooler sat by the mess table. Flicking open the ring pull, he dropped into a corner seat, automatically positioning himself so he could see the open door. Green uniformed soldiers occasionally tramped by, smelling of distrust, gun oil and patriotism. Taking a slurp from the can, he glanced around the large rec room. Victor was nowhere to be seen, on the prowl for food and female company, if it could be had. Of the two brothers, he was keen about the idea of a mutant-only special task force. Logan had reservations. A lot of reservations. Victor's appetites for everything were starting to get out of control.

_Nah, been outta control for a long while,_ he thought, watching Fred Dukes shovel in a hotdog the size of his forearm. _Vic, bro, what are we gonna do about you?_

Settling himself more comfortably in the worn armchair, Logan crossed his ankles and scowled. Yet another training exercise was booked for later that afternoon, under the watchful eyes of scientists studying the mutant condition. He harboured a deep distrust of the scurrying, white-coated medics, who probed and measured and questioned, peering into his very DNA. Wade Wilson, however, loved showing off. Loquacious, charming and deadly, Wilson would spin his twin blades as he danced, almost _en pointe_ through confrontations. If he ever got injured, Logan never saw it.

Sensitive ears picking up Wilson's never-ending chatter down the corridor, Logan groaned softly. He did not dislike the perpetual comedian, just wondered how anyone could talk so much. Dukes snuffled a little as he scoffed down the last of his hotdog, mopping up a splodge of mustard with his stubby index finger. He looked up and met Logan's gaze, eyes rolling disparagingly as he heard Wade's voice grow closer and louder.

"May I just say you look lovely in black, a flattering colour for all ladies. I myself am in touch with my feminine side – take this shirt, for example..."

Logan paused with the half drunk can part way to his mouth. There was another mutant in the hallway with Wade. A feral, like him, like Victor. A woman. He set his can down and waited for them to come into view, alert, curious.

"Wilson, you've got the worst case of verbal diarrhoea I've ever come across." The voice was English, but not the cut-glass vowels of BBC, more the soft-sharp patter of John Lennon or Paul McCartney.

"I'm in touch with my feelings," Wade insisted, not put out in the least. "I _express_ myself."

A soft snort, "Nah, lad, you're so full of shit it's leaking out of your ears."

Logan gave a quick bark of laughter. Wade stepped through the rec room door and gave an exaggerated flourish to usher the guest through. A tall, pale young woman in motorcycle leathers sauntered through the door. Her hazel green eyes flitted about the room, a leisurely glance in appearance only. She was scouting the area, taking in information, assessing risks. A solider, not a civilian or a scientist. She moved with long-limbed, economic grace. Logan watched and waited as she was introduced to Fred Dukes, who blushed like a raspberry.

"Freddie boy, meet Helena Draven," Wade beamed. "Ms. Draven is a volunteer like us. One of our British neighbours... what did you say your background was...?"

He trailed off and looked expectantly at the Englishwoman, who merely smiled thinly and picked a strand of wind-blown grass from her long dark curls.

"I didn't," she said, fixing him with a piercing gaze.

Wade found himself dropping his eyes, unable to hold eye contact. For a brief moment, the sunny facade dropped and something cold and calculating passed across his handsome features. Noting the reaction for future reference, Logan mentally added Helena Draven to his list of dangerous people. Anyone who could phase Wade Wilson with a single glance was worthy of a place. Recovering his composure, Wilson ambled over and threw out a hand.

"And finally, one half of our very own Laurel and Hardy double act – James Logan. Jimmy – Ms Draven, Helena, Jimmy."

Wiping the soda condensation from his palm on his combat fatigues, Logan stood and offered his hand. She took it, grip firm, fingers sliding over his wrist, a dominant gesture that surprised him.

"Helena," he nodded tersely, quirking an eyebrow.

"James," she murmured, still keeping hold of his hand. "Heard a lot about you and your brother. Apparently you're the best at what you do."

Logan flashed his best charming grin, "That's right, darlin'."

Her lips twitched in a slight, wry smile. "Well, get ready to be knocked off that pedestal, Canuck. You lads have just mucked around in the sandbox. Let's see how you measure up to my standards."

Wade smirked as the grin dropped from Logan's features, replaced by indignant disbelief. The English mutant smiled like a cat in a mouse nest, dropped the Canadian's hand and leisurely strolled from the room. Watching the sway of her leather-clad hips as she departed, Wade's mouth turned down at the corners.

"Y'know, Jimmy," he observed, tone approaching serious. "I think this lady is gonna be trouble. I mean, any girl that's immune to the Wilson charm's gotta be a little nuts." He broke off and grimaced. "I hope you can keep a rein on your brother while she's around."

"Whaddaya mean by that?" Logan growled, instantly defensive of Victor.

Wade shrugged, toned muscle rippling beneath his faded green t-shirt. Slinging himself into the recently vacated armchair, he crossed his ankles.

"I mean ol' Vic isn't exactly a shrinking violet and she's alpha female in leather," Wade smiled, running scenarios through his mind. "Mmmmm leather... anyways, I'd hate to have to explain the mess to Stryker."

Logan scowled, "Victor wouldn't be stupid enough. He may rag on her some, but he's likin' this new billet too much to screw it up by hurtin' the newbie."

Opening the small flick knife he carried in his boot with a muted click, Wade began absently cleaning his nails. He looked up, sharp blade poised before his thumb.

"Not her I'm worried about, man," he shrugged and carried on examining his nails. "I'm sure the lovely Ms Draven can look out for herself. I've seen her personnel record."

Dukes snorted a laugh from the far side of the rec room, beginning to make inroads on his second hotdog. "And how in the hell did you manage that?"

Closing his knife, stowing it securely in his left boot, Wade twinkled a little, cocking a crooked grin.

"Lieutenant Singer in records isn't anywhere near as immune to the Wilson charm," he revealed. "That and I might've kinda stolen a peek while her back was turned."

"And?" Logan demanded.

Crossing his ankles, hands beneath his head, Wade regarded the ceiling nonchalantly, playfully whistling Yankee Doodle.

"Telekinetic, advanced healing factor, sense of smell, hearing and sight," he recited in classroom fashion. "Decorated in ten different combat zones, speaks eight different languages. The girl can lift a tank without lifting a finger. Oh, and wait for it – she's got claws."

Dukes almost choked on his hotdog, "I didn't see no claws. Just a pretty pair of-"

"Eyes!" Wade glared, mock primly. "And mine are prettier!"

He angled his head at Logan. "She's got bone skewers, just like you, my man."

Grin widening as he saw the furious incredulity on the Canadian's face, he pursed his lips reflectively.

"So feral mutie boys meet feral mutie girl."

Wade pantomimed simpering, hands clasped beneath his chin, eyelashes fluttering.

"Oh boys, whoever will I choose?" he sighed, falsetto. "Oh, no, don't go scrapping over little ol' me! Wait, I gotta dive in there, cause a whole heap of shit, then discover handsome, talented, dreamy Wade Wilson..."

Guffawing, Fred stumped to the counter to help himself to a large cup of sludgy coffee as Logan stormed from the rec room, muttering darkly. The furious report of his boot heels echoed down the corridor, ending in a slammed door.

"What makes you think they'll set to fighting, Wade?" he enquired.

Wilson shrugged, "they gotta. It's in their nature. Vic's the alpha in this psycho Brady Bunch, or so he likes to think. And I don't think she'll be happy until she's established her own pack order. And knowing Victor Creed, he'll go one of two ways – find some way to permanently get rid of her, or try and bed her. Either way, he wins. The guy's a freakin' animal."

Fred shuddered. " Don't think Jimmy'll be able to pull him back on this one?"

Wade shook his head, "Nope. Those boys have lived a long, long time with women who come and go, age, get sick and die while they stay just as butt ugly as ever. Dontcha think they'll both be a little bit curious over a hot chick in leather who's just like they are?"

A crisp ten dollar bill appeared in his peripheral vision. Wilson smiled and plucked it from Fred's pudgy fingers.

"That's on Creed," Dukes stated. "And I betcha he'll kill her."

The bill disappeared into Wade's pocket, replaced by a battered notepad on which he quickly drew up betting odds with a stubby green pencil.

"My money's on her," he revealed. "Let's see what the rest of the team think. If nothing else, it'll entertain me."

***


	2. Chapter 2

Methodically, the Hispanic guard cleaned his rifle, checking for signs of damage or dirt that could impede its operation. He squinted down the length at the pretty, terrified blonde huddled in the corner of the cell opposite his post. Blue mascara tears had long dried on her face, an ugly purple swelling above her right eye where the rifle butt had slammed home. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, tenting the shimmering material of an expensive formal gown. He grinned as she flinched, showing tobacco-brown teeth.

"Niña estúpida," he chuckled. "Thought 'cos Papá's a general you could get away not paying up? Niña estúpida!"

The General's daughter snuffled, any trace of the cocaine that fuelled her partying out of her system. Now all that remained was paranoia, adrenaline and fear. Tottering from a Monterrey nightclub in platforms too tall for her inebriated state, she had been snatched from the arm of her latest boyfriend by three hooded thugs with rifles and a machete. When she squealed in protest, indignant at first, the rifle butt came down on her knee, then her forehead. She had drifted in and out of consciousness during the bumpy truck ride, hogtied up with red electrical wire, tossed in the back like a market chicken. She caught snatches of conversation in Spanish and tinny pop music from the radio.

They had not been interested in her money, but taken it anyway, along with her handbag, jewellery and shoes. Doubtless they now graced the feet of somebody's favourite whore. Her offers to pay her debts were summarily dismissed. It was all far too little too late. The guard took a swig from a tin mug of treacle black coffee, propped his rifle against his shoulder and began rolling a cigarette.

A knock sounded at the door, three smart raps on steel-reinforced wood. Irritably, the guard looked up, tongue protruding from between his teeth as he prepared to lick-seal his cigarette.

"¿Qué?" he snapped, stumping over to open the door.

Loud music and louder conversation flooded through as he yanked the door open, along with the smell of hashish and stale sweat.

"Miguel pensó que usted podría hacer con una cierta compañía."

The General's daughter could not see the woman, but desperately wondered if she had found an ally to help her escape. Her hopes faded as the guard stepped back to allow the visitor in. Cheap gold hoops hung from her ears, long dark hair twisted into a braid, a wilted hibiscus tucked behind her ear. A tiny bleached denim skirt, scuffed stiletto heels and a white cotton blouse knotted up to expose her midriff completed the look.

Grinning, the guard closed and bolted the door behind her as she snapped violently pink gum. Green eyes tracked around the cluttered storeroom-cum-cell, finally resting on the General's daughter with contempt. Gingerly probing the orange sized lump on her brow, the General's daughter bit back hysterical laughter. Her saviour was a whore. A white-skinned hussy who probably made a good living from Hispanic men who liked to count her freckles.

The guard dropped into his chair and patted his crotch, cigarette dangling from his lower lip. Heels tick-tapping, the whore crossed the room and knelt between his spread knees. Turning away in disgust, feeling bile rise in her throat, the General's daughter began to sob. A dull _shunk_ sounded, closely followed by a wet gurgle. The rifle clattered to the floor. Something warm and wet encroached over her toes. She looked up and realised it was blood. Sprawled back in his chair, the guard's chest was bibbed in glistening red, a trio of dark holes and torn flesh under his jaw. Three tufts of hair dotted with neat circles of skull protruded from the crown of his head. Her mouth opened in preparation to scream.

"You make so much as a peep, lady and we'll be giving you back to Daddy with your gob sewn shut," an English voice informed her curtly.

She tried to scream anyway, wide blue eyes fixed on the foot long bone claws on the whore's right hand. A pressing force appeared at her mouth, stifling the sound so it emerged as a croak. Prising off the lock with her claws, the whore reached in and grabbed her by the shoulder. Hauling her out, holding her up, she touched her ear behind the hibiscus blossom.

"I've got the daft little moo," she said to empty air.

Her earpiece crackled as she listened to the reply. "Okey-doke. Copy that."

Eyes narrowing with concentration, she held out her free hand, fingers splayed. A section of outer wall began to tremble, shedding motes of plaster, then exploded outwards. Unable to scream even if she had wanted to, the General's daughter watched as it broke into several pieces that bobbed on the air, silently.

"Time to go."

Stumbling as she was dragged out through the ragged hole into the humid night air, she stared at her rescuer.

"W-wha, what are you?" she stammered, ears filled with cicadas and music filtering from the club.

Fierce green eyes snapped to her, though the marching pace did not falter. Gravel stung her bare feet and she slapped a hand to her mouth to stop herself yelping. Her knee throbbed with pain where the rifle had struck.

"Pissed off with these cheap shoes," came the reply. "Now move it."

A stocky black man in dark combat fatigues materialised from nothing, body coalescing around the hazy impression of his skeleton. It was too much for the General's daughter, who fainted, sagging like a marionette in the Englishwoman's strong grip.

John Wraith raised an eyebrow, brown eyes twinkling in the dark. "Damn, if only I had that effect on all the ladies."

Draping the unconscious girl over his proffered arm like a coat, Helena Draven smiled tightly. Wraith threw her a sloppy salute and vanished, taking the liberated prisoner with him.

"Where's my taxi?" she asked, prodding her earpiece as she stepped into a side alley.

A minute or so later a pickup cruised around the corner driven by James Logan, a grinning Wade Wilson in the passenger seat. Wade jumped out and leaned on the warm hood.

"Your ride," he announced, indicating the middle seat. "Though why you had to stop just before we got to the good stuff back there..."

Leaning on his forearm on the steering wheel, Logan shook his head as she ignored the cocky swordsman and slid into the seat next to him. Kicking off her shoes, she rubbed her heels, the blisters left by the cheap plastic fading in seconds. Yanking the door shut, she leaned out the open window.

"For that, Wilson, you're walking," she informed him.

"Ah, c'mon," he chuckled, reaching to open the door. "I'm the merc with the mouth – I gotta keep up my rep."

He tugged at the handle and nothing happened. Frowning, he tried again, the lock clicked open but the door refused to move. Helena smiled sweetly at him and dipped her chin to Logan.

"We haven't got all night, James."

Shrugging, smothering a grin as Wilson's expression altered to incredulity, Logan toed the accelerator and the pickup grumbled up the street. Kicking empty air, Wade flipped up his middle finger.

"Uh, shouldn't we do sommat about Wade?" he asked as they turned the corner.

Helena pulled out her earpiece and earrings, throwing the mangled hibiscus out of the truck window.

"I'll send Wraith back to get him," she announced, wiggling her toes in the foot well. "In a few hours. Call it payback for putting the new girl up for fishing some prick of a general's coke-head brat out of the shit."

Giving a brief, almost smile, Logan lifted a shoulder in an if-you-say-so gesture, taking a right onto the next block. Their rendezvous point was in the scrubby desert outside of town. The road stretched away into the distance, miles disappearing into the night. Aware of her scrutiny, he flicked a glance at her. Bare feet curled beneath her on the passenger seat, elbow out of the open window, she was watching him.

"What?" he grunted.

"Just wondering what makes two brothers so different," she mused, lifting a strand of hair from her eyes.

"Me 'n Victor ain't that different," he disagreed, gaze returning to the road. "Both ferals, just like yer are, darlin'."

"Mmmhmmm," she murmured noncommittally. "Feral types are all the same, or so they say – growl, fight, shag, kill."

The pickup came to a gentle halt as they reached the designated coordinates. They were half an hour early . Logan turned off the ignition, the engine noise dying away into silence. This far out into the desert, the night was cold, blue grey, dotted with pinpoint stars.

"That what you do?" he asked, turning to her, deciding to play the game.

She uncoiled like a cat, a smile curling her lips. Across the cab and straddling him in one sinuous movement, her hands slid across his chest, smirking as she felt his heartbeat race.

"My growl could do with a bit of work," she purred, her thick braid swinging across her neck. "But as for the other items on the feral checklist..."

Stealing his rejoinder with a savage kiss, she laughed at the semi-startled but mostly delighted expression on his face.

"What's the matter, James? Not used to women who make the first move?"

This time he did not try to reply, simply wrapped her braid around his fist and pulled her to him. Pressing his face to the curve of her neck, he inhaled her scent, her closeness, her velvet over steel body.

"You and Victor are in deep trouble," she stated, her voice somehow coming with the kisses, between the slide of cloth and caresses. "Stryker is using all of you and you won't like where he's headed."

A pounding noise drowned out further words, loud, insistent thudding like mallet blows in his head. Logan woke with a groaned curse, tangled in the rough woollen blankets and starched sheets of his bunk.

"Jimmy!" Victor's basso-profundo voice filtered through the door. "Get your ass outta bed!"

Rolling over, Logan muttered an epithet under his breath and padded on bare feet to the door. The dream had reflected the first mission right up until the point she had left Wilson to walk. Palming his beard, he shook his head, half-convinced he could still taste her.

"Goddamn it, Vic," he grumbled, opening the door. "Yer any idea what time it is?"

Creed's huge frame filled the doorway. He grinned, pointed canines peeping over his lower lip. He peered over Logan's head into the room and the empty bed. Seemingly pleased by what he saw, he clapped his younger brother on the shoulder companionably.

"So," he rumbled, entering the room and dropping heavily onto the bed. "Yer ain't beaten me to it yet."

Scrubbing his face with his hands, chasing sleep fog from his mind, Logan squinted at him, perplexed.

"Ta what?"

Victor's feral smile widened, showing more teeth. He smelled of pine needles, beer, tobacco smoke and burritos. He leaned back on his palms, the bedsprings creaking.

"Ta _her._ Shame on yer, Jimmy, not ringin' an' lettin' me know. Is she blonde, brunette...? Red head? Wilson could hardly wait ta spill the minute I got back. The runt's got a bettin' pool goin' on the outcome."

Wordlessly vowing to punch Wade Wilson in his perpetually moving mouth, Logan forced an indifferent shrug.

"Wilson's a dick," he opined flatly. "Last month he was runnin' a pool on the likelihood Stryker wears women's panties. Yer ain't fallin' fer that, are yer?"

Victor sat up straight, eyebrows climbing to his hairline. "Yer serious? The first feral mutie woman we come across an' yer ain't lookin' fer a slice? Just think o'the _fun_ ta be had."

Looking at the dangerous, predatory gleam in his brother's eyes, Logan felt a chill settle in his stomach. Once Creed got that look, he never gave up, never backed down until he was forced and there were precious few things that could make him to do so.

"So, what is she?" Victor persisted.

Logan sighed and looked upwards for intervention he knew would never come.

"Brunette."

"Cute?"

"Yeah, s'pose."

Laughter rumbled from Creed's huge chest like rolling thunder. He gripped his brother's shoulder, sharp yellow claws dimpling the skin. The tiny wounds sealed over instantly, leaving spots of blood.

"Then, let the hunt commence," he announced gleefully.

Bounding off the narrow bed and to the door in one powerful leap, he paused at the threshold and looked back over his shoulder.

"I got twenty dollars on _me_."

Before Logan could respond, he was away down the hall, quietly humming a nineteenth century hunting song.

_She's got one thing right. We are in deep trouble..._


	3. Chapter 3

Retrieving a squat glass from a locked desk drawer, General William Stryker tipped in two inches of expensive whiskey. Settling back in his leather office chair, he pressed a button on the desk console and watched as the stop-motion figures jerking across the screen juddered into crisp focus. Recordings and live feeds from hidden cameras dotted about the facility, they allowed him unprecedented access to his mutant Special Task Force. The tiny cameras, the whir of their mechanics hidden from sharp feral ears by water pipes and high-traffic corridors, saw all.

At the press of a button he saw Wade Wilson practising _kata_ alone in the empty aircraft hangar, Wraith watching late-night boxing on television, a frosty beer bottle in his hand. Another button. This camera showed Agent Zero lovingly cleaning his ever-expanding collection of handguns and Christopher Bradley building a model steam engine from a press-out kit. A third button. Helena Draven, a gracile figure in black vest and sweatpants, calmly bench pressing weights in the extensive gymnasium. Flicking the control, Stryker zoomed in, allowing himself a grim smirk as he saw she was lifting enough weight to make any commando struggle.

There were several cameras in the gymnasium and surrounding areas, as the team spent a lot of time there. Much of the equipment was adapted to withstand the massive physical strength of mutants like Dukes and Creed. A dark blur appeared in the bottom left lens, drawing the General's attention. He pulled back the zoom, a faulty corridor light throwing a bulky shadow. The figure took a small step forward, head tipping. Muted fluorescent light filtering through the gym door revealed Victor Creed's bearded face.

"Ah, now it begins," Stryker muttered softly, cradling his glass to his chest. "Draw her out for me, Victor, there's a good dog."

Huge hand splayed against the safety glass of the gym door, talons showing ivory at his fingertips, Creed watched her complete another set. Nostrils flaring slightly, he caught her scent, drawing it into his mouth, allowing it to filter back into his throat. He grinned and ran his tongue over sharp incisors, fingers contracting slightly at the glass. Draven's head lifted at the _scritch_ of keratin on glass, confirming his suspicions she heard just as well as he did. Quirking a dark brow, she unconcernedly went back to her exercise, fingers curling around the bar. Smothering a quick stab of umbrage at how easily she had disregarded him, Victor slipped in through the door. He was unaccustomed to anyone, least of all a woman, dismissing him out of hand. Despite his size, he moved lightly, stealthily approaching her bench.

Completing another set, the Englishwoman set the bar back in its holder with a soft grunt. The weights clunked against each other, loud and echoing in the otherwise empty hall. It was late and most people were sleeping. Without sitting up, she dusted her hands off and folded them across her taut belly.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" she demanded. "Lurking outside the door like a spotty kid peeking into the girl's locker room? Victor Creed, I presume?"

She sat up and leaned back on her palms on the narrow bench, a light sheen of perspiration from her workout glinting at her forehead. Disdain radiated from her, increasing as Creed's gaze travelled appreciatively, and blatantly, from breast to hips.

"Down boy," she admonished. Shaking her head, half amused, half exasperated. "Haven't you lads ever seen a feral mutie bint in your chuff?!"

Creed spread his hands and smiled, but his eyes glittered blackly. "If yer mean have we ever seen a feral girl, then, no frail, we ain't."

On her feet and toe –to-toe with him in an eye blink, she glared up into his face. His height outstripped hers by almost a foot. It almost seemed ridiculous, but neither smiled.

"That's Major to you, Lieutenant," the words were crisp and cold as river ice, the tone one accustomed to obedience. "Atten-hut!"

A soldier for decades, Creed almost snapped into parade stance on reflex, shoulders twitching back, chin lifting. Almost, but not quite. One side of her mouth lifting in a victorious half-smile as fury leapt in his black eyes, Helena took a step away. Hands dropping loosely to her sides, she casually dropped her weight back onto her left foot.

"Too easy," she remarked scornfully. "I can see which brother got the brains."

Knuckles gravel-cracking as his great fists clenched, Victor's upper lip curled warningly. She curled her own lip back at him, skinning back over pearly teeth.

"You wanna dance with me, sunshine?" she asked evenly, threat weaving through her tone like steel. "You'd better make your mind up, 'cos I don't bend, break or frighten."

Half the size of his, her fists bunched at her sides, reminding him she had bone claws sheathed in her forearms. He growled like a panther in an oil drum, the sound reverberating up through his barrel chest. Pelvis dropping, knees slightly bent in preparation to spring, her fists came up. Eyes clear and glacial as emeralds, she popped the central claw on her right hand.

"Fuck you, Canuck."

Roaring, Creed launched himself at her. Using his greater mass, she propelled him headfirst into the wall. Furiously shaking his head, shedding clumps of crumbled plaster, he flipped over backwards and onto his feet. She was ready with an uppercut that drove his teeth into his upper lip, but earned her four dripping slashes across her abdomen. Lashing out, he caught her beneath the chin with a massive paw, laying open her face from cheek to cheek. Dashing the blood from her eyes, she snarled ferociously. Slapping the air, her claws burst out as he spat a dark gobbet onto the linoleum. She whirled, slicing his chest down to the ribcage, scant inches from puncturing a lung. They broke apart, circling, watching, wounds knitting over as their healing factor took hold.

Leaping over his head, she neatly twisted midair and land squarely upon his shoulders. Locking her thighs about his throat, she drew back her spurred fist and stabbed straight through his upper back, talons grating through bone. Creed gagged and choked as his lung collapsed, clawing at her, eyes wide and crazed. Bunching his yellow claws into a spear point, he punched up blindly, finding her abdominal aorta. She vixen shrieked with mingled rage and pain, the wound pumping out wetly across Creed's head and shoulders. Taking the opportunity, he hauled her off and hurled her to the floor. She bounced heavily, skull striking the hard floor, eyes rolling.

Throwing himself down on top of her, pinning her down, he nailed her wrists to the floor. He felt the thin bones grind against his palms, holding her arms out like a crucified saint, and grinned viciously. The tension in her limbs was palpable; she quivered with fury, muscles cording in her biceps and forearms.

"Too easy," he chuckled, leaning down to sniff the soft spot between her ear and jaw. "Scream for me..."

He pressed his nose to the inviting triangle of skin, detecting outrage and arousal in her scent, peppery and sweet. Victor knew she could feel his blood was up, roused by the physical confrontation. She gave a half-hearted struggle, which only served to heighten his excitement. He wondered if he should risk letting go of her wrists, as he had much better uses for his hands.

"Not bloody likely," she murmured.

Her right knee came up between his legs with such force it clunked against his pelvis. The pain was immediate, excruciating and obliterated any other urges. With a strangulated groan he toppled over, hands wafering protectively between his thighs. Her booted feet came into focus before his streaming eyes. She bent low, amusement written large across her delicate features.

"More like the other way around."

Mockingly chucking him under the chin, she snapped her carpal bones back into place with a quick flex of her wrists and stalked triumphantly from the hall. Lying spread-eagled on his back, breathing quick and hard, Victor stared in disbelief at the ceiling lights. As the agony faded, he began to laugh uproariously, grimacing as his partially healed lung protested.

"First blood ta the lady..."


	4. Chapter 4

"Red ball, top left corner," Wade declared confidently, squinting down the length of his pool cue.

The shot was difficult, requiring three precise rebounds from the green before pocketing the red. Pushing up the brim of his ever-present cream Stetson, Wraith shook his head doubtfully.

"Nah man, you'll never make that shot."

Grinning, wiggling his backside for effect, Wilson drew back the cue and duly pocketed the red. Turning triumphantly to his team mate, he performed a little victory dance.

"Whoo yeah! Who's yo daddy?!" he crowed.

John sighed, dove in his pocket and produced a five dollar bill which he slapped into Wade's outstretched hand. Both men turned as a rattling emerged from the bowels of the pool table, yellow balls kissing red through the plastic viewing slots. Like reversed film, all the red balls streamed from the pockets and clattered across the green felt.

"No fair!" Wade protested, turning accusingly. "Who hit reverse?"

Helena Draven stood in the rec room doorway, crooked finger and telekinesis calling forth the pool balls. Her left hand emerged from behind her back, three bottles of gold label Mexican tequila gripped between the fingers. She quirked an eyebrow, daring him to protest further.

"On the other hand," he allowed, sidling over with a suitably charming smile. "I'd quite happily play with _those_."

Obligingly dumping a bottle in his sword-callused palm, she waved the remaining two bottles in open invitation. Wraith popped out of nothing and relieved her of the second bottle, appearing approximately thirty seconds later with a container of salt.

"Who got lemon?" he asked the room at large.

A heated discussion followed, Wade and John espousing the inherent wrongness of tequila without lemon, Dukes declaring he did not care and Bolt wondering if anyone could get hold of some bitter.

"Bitter?" Helena snorted incredulously, searching in the cupboards for shot glasses. "Always knew you Mancs were plain soft. Gimme vodka any day!"

"At least we beat you thieving Scousers in the football league!" Bradley shot back, grinning.

Incomprehensible to the Americans, who wrote it off as English nonsense, the good-natured banter continued at length until Logan appeared in the door way. The hubbub of conversation stilled, all eyes turning expectantly to a point behind him. On cue, Creed's massive frame filled the aperture, head and shoulders above his sibling.

"Tequila?" Helena enquired brightly, proffering the remaining bottle.

"Gold label?" Logan grunted around his stogie. "Hell yeah. Victor?"

Unreadable, Creed's black eyes moved from the bottle to the Englishwoman's face. Her expression did not alter but her green eyes hardened. Unobtrusively, Wade Wilson's hand crept to his side, curling as if around an absent sword hilt. Tension stretched through the room like a harp string, quivering, fit to snap at any moment.

"Yeah, sounds good," Victor allowed, stepping around his brother to drop onto one of several couches.

Implicit threat evaporating from her stance, Helena twitched her nose and six shot glasses rose from the counter, floating in a neat ring. Lazily, she tossed the sloshing tequila bottle into the air, dispensing neat shots into each. They zipped through the air into waiting hands, the bottle towed like a balloon after her as she crossed the room.

"Nice," Logan commented, plopping down the opposite end to Creed.

Filling her own glass, sending the bottle to the nearest table with a flicked glance, she gracefully sank into the seat between the brothers. Raising her glass, she coughed loudly to draw attention.

"To the special team with special privileges," she declared solemnly. "Triple hard mutant bastards, every one!"

Beaming as an answering ripple of 'triple hard mutant bastards' and laughter swept the room, she tossed back her drink. Slamming the empty glass on her knee, she smacked her lips and summoned the bottle.

"Boys," she announced, index finger stabbing the ceiling. "My eternal gratitude to the man who brings me fresh lemons!"

More laughter and swearing answered her. Blinking away the eye-water caused by tequila burn, Wraith leaned over to Wade, who was idly rolling the pool balls back into the pockets.

"She's some piece o'work," he commented softly, mindful of sharp feral ears. "Look how the pair of them are looking at her, and she sits there like she's getting a manicure. She's either lesbian, got brass balls or is more than a little crazy."

The swordsman shrugged, "She's definitely crazy. Who'd ignore _moi_ in favour of the Brothers Hairy?"

He thumped his fist against his chest and pouted a little, licking the tequila film from his lips.

"Waxing, my man, it's the way forward," he disclosed, deadpan.

Chuckling, Wraith teleported away in search of lemons, leaving Wade to issue a pool challenge to the room. As the clock hit midnight, all three bottles lay empty on the counter, discarded lemon rinds and salt littering table tops. A further two vodka bottles also lay empty. Helena had beaten Fred Dukes at arm wrestling. Her admission she had used her telekinesis came as the team peered fuzzily at the broken halves of the table. Bolt had laughed so hard tequila squirted out of his nose. Glass still gripped in his left hand, he had lapsed into unconsciousness some ten minutes earlier, snoring quietly.

Logan glanced down at the pair of smooth white feet in his lap, gaze travelling up the length of leg attached to them. Having shed her boots sometime earlier, Helena reclined comfortably on the couch, chatting amiably with an exceedingly drunk Fred. After two hours, during which she had steadfastly ignored him, Victor had flounced away in his equivalent of a sulk. Recalling the betting pool, the Canadian mutant scowled fiercely enough to melt glass. Belching spectacularly, Fred stumped off to use the bathroom, Wade and Wraith engaged in yet another drunken game of pool across the hall. The pool table felt sported three ragged tears after previous bouts.

She flexed her feet, rotating her ankles with a contented sigh, a glass of straight whiskey pressed to her cheek. Nostrils flaring as she detected a minute change in his scent, she moistened her lower lip, running her big toe along his thigh. Clamping a tiny fold of cheek between his teeth, Logan cursed his rebellious body, spine rigid. A mischievous smile bowed her lips as she bent her knee, the ball of her foot describing a maddeningly slow circle against his groin.

"I ain't playing yer game," he told her, voice rough and low.

"Who says I'm playing, James?" she asked softly. "Wade? Victor?"

Despite himself, his large hands slid up her calf, sleek muscles sliding beneath his palm as her foot continued to tease. A slight flush appeared in her fair cheeks as his fingers stroked the back of her knees through her heavy canvas fatigues.

"Mebbe. Yer certainly riled Victor up good with yer little stunt in the gym."

She regarded him seriously, lower lip scrunched. He tried not to imagine the same lip between his teeth.

"Victor tried to assault me," she stated flatly, levitating her glass onto the nearest table. "What else would you call pinning me down and pressing his hard-on into my belly? In the nineteenth century the peasant girls may've called that foreplay. I call it looking to get his fucking head sliced off."

Logan flinched, involuntarily, memory flashing on a screaming Vietnamese girl tossed against a hut wall. A roared rebuttal had stopped Creed then.

"Yer skewered his damn lung," he offered.

Sucking in a startled breath as the pad of her foot pressed hard enough to makes his eyes water, his chin tucked in as she snapped upright. Thrusting her face close to his, slim fingers suddenly gripping his knees like vices, she glowered.

"And 'cos I kicked his gonads into his throat, that makes it alright, does it?" she demanded harshly. "'Cos I'm more than able to defend myself, well, let's let ol' Victor off the hook. I've seen enough combat to know what men do when the animal takes over, Logan."

Close enough to feel the warm, whiskey-spiced puff of her breath, abruptly angry at the implication, disgusted at his brother, he growled a wordless denial. For long seconds they faced each other down like rival pack wolves.

"We've all got a little animal in us," he rumbled. "All us feral types. Yer hissin' an' spittin' good enough ta make a lioness proud. So quit the moralisin'. Yer played Victor good without a scrap of fear. Hell, I think yer even liked it."

Her chin came up and he realised he had touched a nerve. His scalp prickled as her telekinetic field leapt, the glasses and bottles chattering together, her hair weaving medusa-like. Across the room, their team mates looked up from the pool table questioningly. Claws pricking the skin from the inside, Logan's shoulders bunched in preparation. Abruptly, she lunged forward, but not with the anticipated attack. Pinching his muttonchops, she kissed him, hard, nipping at his lower lip.

"If you're a good boy, sweetheart, you may get to find out exactly what I like," she breathed against his mouth.

With that she was gone, leaving him astounded, the taste of her mingling with blood and whiskey on his tongue. His mouth and groin throbbing in time with his thudding heart he jumped at the clatter of a dropped pool cue.

"Holy shit," Wraith muttered, chocolate brown eyes wide.

Leaning somewhat unsteadily against the pool table, Wade cocked his head, "Okay, that was kinda scary... seriously hot, but scary."

He threw Logan a double thumbs-up. "Dude, if I were you I'd be taking a little private time right about now, introduce Mrs Palm to her five lovely daughters..."

Ignoring Logan's snarled epithet, he grinned. "Your odds just doubled."


	5. Chapter 5

With practised efficiency, the boot-faced nurse drew back on the syringe, filling a small glass vial with blood. She slipped the needle out of the vein, pausing momentarily as she realised there was no need to swab the puncture.

"Don't know I'll ever get used to that," she murmured wonderingly as the needle mark vanished.

Helena rubbed her thumb over the spot, the slight tingle of her healing factor dying away. Reclining on a sterile-sheet gurney in the facility infirmary, she yawned.

"Any chance of a brew, sweetheart?" she asked. Seeing incomprehension pleat the nurse's brow, she added, "cuppa? Cup of tea? None of that sludge you Yanks call 'cawfee' either... Thanks."

The nurse laughed, "Sure thing. I'll see what I can do. I think we've vampirised you enough for the while."

Closing her eyes, Helena withdrew her awareness and concentrated on the babble of thoughts emanating from the minds around her. The quiet efficiency of the med bay disappeared, replaced with an endless susurrus of inner monologue. To outward appearances she was dozing comfortably after a battery of medical tests. Techs, scientists and medics hurried about, a homogenous, white-coated mass of humanity. Some were standard medical staff employed to treat anyone, human or _homo superior_, who required it. Others were attached to Stryker's Special Task Force. All were human, so far as she could tell. None knew she had telepathy in her repertoire of mutant gifts. The nucleotide sequence in genes that identified the presence of telekinesis was almost indistinguishable from that producing telepathy. Wade Wilson called her the "Walking Swiss Army Knife". What she usually called him made the entire team snigger.

Thoughts swooped and wove about heads like hummingbirds, banal as shopping lists, petty professional jealousies and plans for the weekend. Delving deeper, parting the fog of surface thoughts, she peered past illicit love affairs, undeclared sexuality and hidden ambition. The conscious minds of the science techs were swamps of formula soup. Each mind occupied with whittling down the double helix to find the cogs and wheels powering the fabulous genetic machinery producing mutants.

_Nothing, _she thought, mildly peeved. _One big junior school science fair. None of them know what Stryker's end game is. Hmph._

The General was suspicious of her. She could smell it, rolling off him in like Duke's cheap cologne. Long years of covert military life swathed his mind up so tightly she could not risk a telepathic probe at this early stage. Not until he trusted her more, let his guard down a fraction. Like the rest of the team, she had been approached, wooed with offers of special privileges, handsome wages and the chance to serve the good old USA. The fact she regarded America as Great Britain's backward poor relation had proven a sticking point in their negotiations.

_Maybe I plonked myself a little too conveniently in his lap,_ she mused. _Let him get a hold of my service record too easily. Please, for Chrissakes, don't let that intel be right._

Unbidden, the image of a thin Nigerian mutant woman with dark, empty eyes flickered across her awareness. Collar bones like razor blades, she rocked back and forth, back pressed into the corner of the room. She did not speak even after the surgeons had carefully removed the titanium augmentations from her jawbone. Healing factor compromised, her body had rejected the clumsy attempts to create a super soldier. Oozing sores ran the length of her forearms, disfigured her mouth. They refused to heal, even with specialist care. What had been done to her mind was worse. British intelligence forces had called in the best telepaths they had, but what they gleaned was chaotic, nightmarish. Two had fled the room and vomited after a single half hour session.

Helena had visited the secure care facility, noting the deep grooves scarring the concrete door lintel. A sheaf of orders tucked into her back pocket, a single kit bag packed for an upcoming black ops mission slung at her shoulder. The ravaged mutant had leapt at her, but not to attack. Gripping her shoulders with desperate strength, she stared mutely into her eyes and an understanding had passed between them. Catching the broken woman as she collapsed, Helena had gently placed her back onto the bed and called for a nurse to administer a mostly-useless heavy sedative. Less than three hours later she was on an unchartered flight bound for the American – Canadian border.

Clinking china and spring-squeak of the bedside chair caused her to open her eyes. Dragging her train of thought to the present, the click whir of medical equipment, stench of antiseptic and ever-present gun oil filtered back. Holding a delicate floral tea cup and saucer like it would shatter, Logan offered a lame grin.

"Nurse gimme this. She thought yer'd like it," he elaborated, handing it her by the edge of the saucer. "Seen as yer English."

Raising an eyebrow at the pink flowers and gilt edge to the cup, Helena shot him an oblique look. His lips twitched, suppressing laughter as she regarded the cup like it was a large, particularly repulsive bug. She scowled, then relented and they shared a grin. Taking a slurp of tea, she sighed thankfully.

"The cup's bloody hideous, but at least the tea's good. This is the first decent cuppa I've had in months. Forget the healing factor, _this_ is what keeps me going."

Blowing on her tea, raising a small eddy of steam, she cocked her head at his rolled shirt sleeve.

"The blood-suckers get you too?"

She indicated the small cotton wool puff taped into the crook of his arm.

"Yeah," he grimaced, peeling off the tape. "There's always one nurse who insists on tapin' me up when they know I don't need it."

Since the tequila binge and their brief spat, they had treated each other with wary courtesy. Much as it pained him, her assessment of Victor had added more fuel to his privately-held doubts, whatever her underlying motives.

_We're not animals, bro,_ he thought. _We don't kill people we don't hafta an' we definitely don't rape women. Just when did right an' wrong get so fuzzy with yer?_

Tossing the cotton wool into a squat medical waste container at the foot of the bed, he slurped reflectively at his coffee.

"So, whaddaya think?" he asked at length.

"About what, James?" she queried, sipping more tea.

"This," he shrugged, waving a hand encompassingly. "Yer still think we're in trouble?"

A strange look passed briefly over her features, part satisfaction, part calculation. Her mouth pursed reflectively.

"Who's we and when did I say anyone was in trouble?" she said, regarding him quizzically.

Brow's dipping low in confusion, Logan realised the conversation he alluded to had taken place in his dream. He flushed slightly, the dream-memory of her mouth on his, her hands questing beneath his shirt and wrapping her glossy braid around his fist pushing forward.

"You feeling alright? You've gone a funny colour."

She was peering at him, expression envisioning concern, but he swore he could see amusement lurking beneath.

"Coffee went down the wrong pipe," he lied, patting his chest.

Opposing thoughts galloped across her face, darkening the colour of her eyes. Appearing to come to a decision, she slipped down from the gurney, gulped the remains of her tea and indicated the corridor with her chin.

"Let's go for a walk," she invited.

The two mutants strolled through the noisy maze of underground corridors, pausing to grab several fat sandwiches from the mess hall. Food was high on a feral's priority list, especially after any injuries, their metabolism requiring more than average fuel. Dodging past the jeeps and mechanics in the entrance bay, they emerged onto a mountainside carpeted with summer greenery. Both inhaled gratefully, chasing the artificial aroma of the base with sharp, pine-scented air.

Leaving the road a short distance from the base, Helena hopped over an embankment and into a copse of stripling pines. Startled, a clutch of rabbits fled, white tails flashing as they sought cover. Selecting a spot beneath the largest tree, sunlight dappling through the pine fronds, she dropped to the ground, crossing her legs, elbows resting on her knees. Holding her face to the warm sun, she sighed and began eating her ham and mustard baguette. Settling opposite her, Logan unwrapped his own lunch.

"Funny," she mused. "Wherever you go, bases smell the same. Different countries, different people, same stink. Sometimes I want to stuff my nose with wax, just to block it out."

Logan grunted agreement, "an' the brass stink most of all."

She laughed, suddenly appearing the apparent age of her face, rather than a young woman with decades behind her eyes.

"How old are yer, darlin'?" he asked impulsively, realising he had not noticed the years she carried.

"Old enough to know better," she answered cryptically. "And a nineteenth century gentleman should know better than to ask a lady her age!"

The humour faded from her expression and she turned her gaze to him, serious, almost grim. She popped in the last of her sandwich, licking a blob of mustard from her upper lip. Wind clattering the pines cast shadows across her face, interspersed with bright splashes of sunlight.

"I've been a soldier since I was fifteen," she revealed, something sad and lost hidden behind her words. "And I know when sommat doesn't smell right. You're bang on when you say the brass stink most of all. Stryker honks like he's been dead for six weeks. Why the constant tests? We've all passed our physicals eight times over, even Fred with his hotdog addiction. The good General's up to something we don't know about."

Sandwich forgotten, the edges beginning to be nibbled by a small contingent of foraging ants, Logan scowled.

"Yeah," he exhaled the word reluctantly. "Been feelin' like a Goddamn lab rat. Notice how it's me, you an' Victor been tested more than the other guys?"

She nodded and made inroads on her second sandwich. "'Zackly. About five years ago I got wind from the middle east of some crackpot oil tyrant pumping funds into mutant experiments. I even got slung out there on assignment. But the prick'd got word, somehow, and by the time we got there he'd cleared the whole facility. His subjects were all ferals. Dunno what went on, really, but he'd been trying to _augment_ them."

Brow creasing, Logan's mouth twisted in bewilderment. "Whaddaya mean, _augment_ them?"

He went to pick up his sandwich, saw the marching ants and leaned over to purloin one of hers.

"Think about it," she urged, shifting her position to get more comfortable. "We can take extreme physical trauma, we don't get infections, we don't scar. What if you didn't need guns, you just sent in a feral who's been tinkered with? A walking, talking weapon of mass destruction. Imagine Victor with a ratcheted up healing factor or enhanced strength and, I dunno, titanium tips to his claws?"

Abruptly cold, despite the pleasant summer warmth, the ham sandwich turning to ashes in his mouth, Logan swallowed uncomfortably.

"Fuckin' boffins an' military brass," he growled. "That just ain't natural."

Helena nodded agreement. "And you can bet they've had a few failed experiments. We aren't all the same – look at you and Creed. The lumbering nutjob may have the edge strength-wise, but your healing factor knocks spots off his."

Allowing the insult to his brother to slide past unchallenged, still digesting the new and unsettling prospect of mutant experimentation, Logan glanced toward the unseen base below.

"I think yer right," he muttered. "An' I think we're all in the shit up to our necks if this's what Stryker got planned fer us."

She leaned over, slender hand on his knee. "Question is, James, what the bloody hell are we gonna do about it? We've got nothing but suspicions and that won't wash with our team. Especially not Victor."

Patting his knee, she sat back. "I reckon we keep this to ourselves for the foreseeable. Until we're sure."

He looked at her sharply, mouth turning down. "Then what?"

She was denied chance to answer as Victor Creed leapt over the embankment, covering twenty foot in a single bound. Thudding heavily into the clearing, scattering dry leaves and twigs, he rolled his great shoulders.

"Now, ain't this cozy," he drawled coldly. "Picnic in the woods."

He loomed menacingly over the two seated ferals. Approaching upwind so they would not catch his scent, he had caught them unawares. Snorting dismissively, features hidden by the shadow Creed cast, she yawned loudly.

"This is getting boring, Victor," she informed him curtly. "Go chase your tail elsewhere. You're putting me off my lunch."

Creed half lunged forward, lips peeling away from his pointed fangs, only to find Logan jumping up with a restraining hand at his shoulder.

"Victor, easy," he urged.

Hurt and anger blooming across his face, Creed stared at his brother's hand, then looked him in the eyes.

"I see," he rumbled. "So that's how it's gonna be?"

Shaking off Logan's hand, he glared over his shoulder at the Englishwoman.

"This ain't over, frail," he warned.

Turning in a whirl of black coattails, he stormed away. Logan started after him, hand outstretched.

"Victor, c'mon... Vic!" he cried, exasperated as his older sibling ignored him.

Shaking his head, he stopped short and threw up his hands in dismay as Creed disappeared from view. He looked around as Helena's deceptively slender fingers appeared at his elbow.

"Victor wouldn't believe me if I said the sky was blue right now," she opined quietly. "I know I've provoked him, but I'm not gonna apologise for following my instincts. It was either that or let him dominate me and have his way. He's not used to not getting exactly what he wants." She smiled self-mockingly. "And I'm not used to giving in to anyone at all. So you see the problem here?"

Logan was silent for long moments. "Yeah, darlin'. I know my brother, an' I know how I'd react if somebody tried ta throw one down on me. So yeah, I see the problem here."


	6. Chapter 6

"C'mon, Fred, stop being a wet lettuce and just bloody well hit me!" Helena snarled, bouncing irritably on her heels.

Dukes looked thoroughly miserable, massively muscled arms hanging loose at his sides. Raking at his spiky blond hair, he grimaced.

"I can't!" he protested. "Momma taught me never to raise my hand to a lady!"

Rolling her eyes with exasperation, she darted at him, hand flashing out in a stinging slap.

"I'm no lady and your Mum was a saggy-titted old trout! Now get with the programme, sergeant, and bleedin' _hit me!_"

Roused by the insult to his mother, Dukes exclaimed in outrage and leapt forward. Dodging his first blow, claws kept firmly inside her forearms, she skipped around and aimed a kick at his backside. Fred tumbled into the ropes, causing them to sag and creak. Staggering upright, he lashed out, narrowly missing her belly as she flexed, supple as a willow switch.

"Good, Fred," she encouraged, dancing on nimble feet around the huge mutant. "But you're gonna have to get past this not-hitting-girls thing. You think any mutie chick with uber-destructo powers would get queasy about kicking your arse?"

Watching from the ringside, Logan puffed reflectively on cigar. Catching a familiar scent only marginally different from his own, he turned his head slightly.

"Hey, bro," he greeted evenly.

Victor grunted minimally in reply, telling Logan he was still annoyed. The bench shuddered slightly as Creed dropped his bulk onto it. They continued to watch the training fight for several minutes. Sneaking a sideways glance, Logan saw his brother was watching the Englishwoman intently, a fervid gleam in his dark eyes. Restrained excitement described in the curve of his spine, the bunched fists at his knees.

"Lookit her, Jimmy," Creed growled. "Yer ever seen a woman like that? She's drivin' me crazy."

"No kiddin'," Logan agreed wholeheartedly. "Vic, buddy, she don't even like yer much. Shouldn't yer be chasin' one that's at least a bit interested?"

Barking with laughter, Victor clapped his brother a little too hard on the shoulder.

"What? Back off an' give yer the chance ta get the slice o' sweet pie?" he guffawed. "Jimmy, she's just in denial, playin' hard ta get. She _knows_ who can get her sobbin' fer more, an' that's _me_. She wriggled _good _when I smacked her down in the gym."

Genuine anger flaring in his gut, Logan turned on his sibling. "That so? So yer didn't pin her down an' stick yer flamin' john thomas halfway through her goddamn back? Fer Godsakes, Victor, can't yer just do things like a civilised human being fer once? We ain't animals!"

Mouth pinching, fang teeth dimpling his lower lip, Creed's black eyes slid from the ring and back again.

We ain't human beings neither," he asserted. "We're _homo superior_, accordin' to some scientific gentleman. Yer said yerself she _liked _it."

"That don't make behavin' like that right," Logan retaliated. "So we ain't classed as proper human beings, that don't make this whole stinkin' business right!"

Puzzled, Creed's dark brows drew together in a thunderous frown. "Why do I get the feelin' yer ain't just talkin' about her now?"

Scowling hard enough to make his jaw ache, Logan ground out his stogie in the palm of his hand, ignoring the brief burning pain.

"This whole billet is makin' me nervous," he disclosed. "Stryker's up ta somethin', I'm sure of it."

Victor shrugged nonchalantly. "The brass're always up ta somethin'."

Suddenly furious at his brother's short-sightedness, Logan clamped a hand onto his iron shoulder.

"I'm serious, Vic," he warned. "Why all the tests? The physicals? Ain't yer just a bit worried they're plannin' somethin' bad, with all those scientists?"

Cocking his head quizzically, Creed harrumphed. "This is her, ain't it? She's dripped nonsense inta yer ear an' yer swallowed it."

Rising to his feet, he snorted disparagingly. "What can Stryker really do? He's human. One good swipe an' he's as dead as anythin'. Just like the rest of the fool generals stretchin' back ta the civil war."

Shaking his head, casting a lascivious glance at the boxing ring, he stumped off, leaving Logan to fume. Instincts warning of danger, he leapt from the wooden bench just in time to avoid Fred Dukes as he flew from the ring, propelled by a telekinetic lash. Crashing heavily to the floor, Fred clambered unsteadily upright.

"I tried to hit her one," he mumbled, swaying momentarily on the spot before pitching forward.

Resting in place midair, supported by invisible hands, Dukes lapsed into unconsciousness. Nimbly ducking between the ropes, Helena hopped down and cantered across the floor.

"Oops," she winced, thoughtfully easing Fred's considerable bulk into a sitting position.

Mopping her brow with her forearm, she turned to Logan, the front of her grey vest damp with fight perspiration.

"Lemme guess," she declared. "You tried to bring Victor onside and it didn't wash?"

He grunted noncommittally. Lifting her ungloved hands in a disarming gesture, she sashayed to his side. Draping a hand across her hip, she favoured him with a ghosted pout.

"I've got a skin full of adrenaline and nothing to work it out on," she revealed. "In the ring or outta it, I gotta get shot of it. Fancy helping a girl out?"

*************

She ran her velvet tongue along the tumescent length of his shaft, rewarded as he groaned gutturally, fingers scrunching the bed sheets. Dipping her head, hair trailing across his stomach and thighs, she bit gently at the loose skin of his scrotum, thumb rubbing across the moist head of his penis.

"Good?" she asked, stroking, teasing, flicking the tip with her tongue.

He nodded jerkily, head tipping back as she took him into her mouth. Totally absorbed in the delicious sensation, Logan panted, eyes scrunching closed. Pleasure coursed through him, intensifying as her teeth scraped over the glans. Just when he thought his overloaded senses could take no more, she stopped, causing him to make a protesting noise in his throat. Moving up, she kissed him, nipples hard against his chest.

"You don't get anything for free, love," she whispered, green eyes intense as she caught his hand and guided it between her legs.

Obligingly, he found her hardening clitoris, dipping his index finger into her wet cleft. Nipping at her earlobe, he made a beckoning motion. She gasped and arched against him, the colour rising in her cheeks. Free hand in the small of her back, he flipped her over onto the pillows. She gazed at him expectantly, plump lower lip held between her teeth. Trailing hot kisses from her neck, across her breasts, teasing at the nipples with his teeth, he drew his tongue in downward circles. Pausing at the juncture of her thighs, exhaling so the soft tangle of hair stirred, he looked up and smiled evilly.

"Tell me what yer want," he growled, kissing the inside of her thigh above the femoral artery. The pulse there quickened in response. "I want ta hear yer say it."

She swore and her knees bobbed, causing him a moment's concern she may lock her thighs in a stranglehold about his neck. He nuzzled her inner thigh, inhaling her arousal, allowing it to flow across his eager tongue like strong liquor. Waiting for her to respond, he slid his hands up to the crook of her knees, quirking an eyebrow.

"I want you to put that talented tongue to good use," she ordered, holding his gaze steadily. "Don't make me ask twice, solider."

He chuckled, low and deep. "Yes, ma'am."

Lowering his head, beard tickling her hyper sensitive skin, he heard her sigh luxuriantly. At the first swirl of his tongue she tensed, biting back a moan, determined not to make it too easy. Lapping softly, he parted her thighs further, sliding two fingers deep inside. This time she groaned, a wild sound that was partly his name, partly unintelligible. He continued until her breathing came in gasps, teasing her with changing rhythms of his tongue and fingers.

Pausing, he lifted his face, calculatingly licking his glistening fingers. Her eyes glittered, cheeks blushed rosy, chest heaving with excitement. For a long moment she simply looked at him, something feral and explosive prowling behind her eyes. Carnal pheromones raging through him, Logan was transfixed by the sight of her, caught between roles of predator and prey. Her tongue quested briefly across her lips, then she pounced, pushing him back against the mattress.

Slithering atop of him, her fingers found and guided him into her. Head tipping back, the slender column of her throat bared, she slowly, deliberately sheathed him, savouring the sensation. Hands planted at his shoulders, her lips curved as he growled, softly.

"My turn," she purred, voice thick with arousal.

The world shrank to the thrust of her hips, the slick heat from her inner temple and her cries of pleasure. Gripping her waist, lost in her whipping dark curls, Logan reared up and rolled them over. Wrapping her long legs about his waist, she bared her white teeth in simultaneous challenge and submission. Nails raking down his back, she cried out as he plunged into her, urging him on, panting, consumed with need. Suddenly she groaned deeply, the primal sound of a woman close to climax. Clutching at his shoulders, she stiffened and screamed, wave after tidal wave of orgasmic contractions shuddering through her. Pulsing ecstasy shooting through him like heated mercury, Logan bellowed as he spent.

The world expanded enough to include the rumpled bed, the sparse sleeping quarters and their mutual, laboured breathing. Replete, sweat-slicked tendrils of hair clinging to her brow and cheekbones, Helena gave a lazy, satisfied quarter smile.

"Mmmm. The things they teach you nineteenth century gentlemen," she observed playfully, wriggling a little beneath him.

"Darlin, I ain't no gentleman," he returned dryly, kissing her nose.

She giggled, the first time he had heard her make such an overtly feminine sound. Looping her strong arms around his neck, she kissed him, almost tenderly.

"Okay, I promise not to snitch," she avowed with mock solemnity.

Collapsing onto his back, Logan wondered whether or not he had a stogie in his pants pocket. He watched as she sprang up and pattered palely naked to the bathroom, licking the taste of her from his lips. By the time she returned, he had retrieved and lit up a stubby cigar. She plucked it from his fingers and took a quick drag, blowing a ring of blue grey smoke. Popping it back between his lips, she plopped down next to him. Seeing his gaze flit to his discarded clothing, she slid her open hand across his chest.

"Stay," she murmured. "There's precious little comfort in lives like ours. We have to take what we can when we can."

Seeing an achingly familiar breed of loneliness that sprouted from a long, ageless life in her hazel green eyes, he nodded and opened his arms. She snuggled down immediately, displaying a fleeting chink of vulnerability in an otherwise impenetrable attitude armour. As she flipped the covers over them both with a loop of telekinesis, Logan felt her smile.

"What?" he asked.

"Can I have half the betting pool payout?" the question was accompanied by a smothered chuckle.

She dissolved his incredulous exclamation with a kiss.

"C'mon, sweetheart, you really think I didn't know about that?"


	7. Chapter 7

Stryker did not appear pleased. Reproach radiated from his ramrod spine, hands clasped in the small of his back as he paced behind his desk. Helena watched him carefully, inhaling a shallow breath to sample his scent. Hands by her sides, she stood in a semi-formal parade stance, only her eyes moving, tracking him warily. Stryker paused, wheeling around to lean on his palms on the desk.

"Your performance in field operations has been exemplary, Draven," he declared. "However, Zero tells me there are tensions between you and certain other team members."

Expression neutral, her left shoulder lifted in a minimal shrug, but her eyes turned glacial.

"Zero is mistaken, sir."

The General's mouth quirked in a humourless smirk. "I'm not a green 'squaddie', Draven. That is the English term, isn't it?"

When she did not reply, gaze front and centre, chin lifting, he took his hands from the desk and pursed his lips.

"I knew adding a woman to my team could potentially raise some issues," he disclosed. "What I didn't expect was for you to play my team off against each other."

"I don't know what you mean, sir," she replied crisply.

Stryker sat heavily in his expensive, leather-back chair, steepling his fingers before his nose. He regarded the ostensibly young woman, her smooth skin unmarked by any scar, wrinkle or blemish. With her hair scraped back into a neat ponytail, face free from cosmetics, she barely seemed older than twenty five. He wondered had he not known her true age if he would have perceived it anyway, in her manner or speech. He decided not. She was too well trained.

"Don't insult my intelligence, Draven," he said mildly. "The wounded innocent look doesn't sit well on an individual whose favoured kill-strike is bone claws through the oesophagus. I know you're accustomed to high risk assignments and the level of activity here is currently minimal, but I expect you to find more productive ways to fill your time. Personal agendas are not welcome on my team."

The English mutant quirked a questioning eyebrow, mouth pinching.

"Sir?"

He leaned forward menacingly. "Find some other way to amuse yourself. I appreciate the fact you're all cast from the same mould, so to speak, but Logan and Creed are volatile enough without you causing problems. The top dog here is your commanding officer, and that, solider, is me."

Helena allowed herself an inner moment of relief. _He thinks this is a feral-type territorial thing. Nice one. _

"With respect," she retaliated. "There were problems with those two long before I signed up, sir. Creed has more psychopathic tendencies than Charlie Manson. I hear he got the firing squad in 'Nam for decapitating a senior officer... Apparently, it tickled."

Stryker struck the desk with the heel of his hand, grey eyes hard and unyielding as flint.

"When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it!" he barked.

"Yes, sir, understood, sir," she replied, infusing the utterance with just the right amount of sheepish apology.

Apparently satisfied, Stryker nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair with a faint squeak of butter-soft leather. Retrieving a packet of cigarettes from his desk drawer, he lit one and took a long drag.

"You're an excellent solider, Draven," he observed. "You'd be perfect if you were a man."

Seeing a quick flash of umbrage pinch her features, he allowed himself a quarter smile.

"Don't take that the wrong way, missy," he soothed. "I know you've worked twice as hard as any man for every rank you've held. The military is gender bias, unfortunate, but true."

He offered the cigarette packet to her, which she refused with a small shake of her head.

"No thank you, sir... they'll kill you in the end."

Stryker regarded the health warning on the pack and grinned, amused by a health-conscious feral who never had to worry about so much as a sniffling cold. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced a lumpy ball of dull grey metal the size of a child's marble. He rolled it in his fingers as he was speaking.

"Out of the entire team, you have the widest range of abilities, both mutant and mundane. You mightn't be the strongest, nor have the most experience, but you're a walking Swiss Army knife, as Wilson so charmingly puts it."

Toying with the metal sphere, he exhaled a plume of silvery smoke and leaned forward in his chair.

"I have an upcoming project which I'm sure you'll be very interested in," he disclosed, voice lowering. "I need a very special candidate, and you fit the bill."

Restrained excitement poured from the General, firing his grey eyes, brightening his complexion. Surreptitiously, Helena extended a skein of thought, lightly skirting through the fringes of his mind. Topography and co-ordinates looped around the same ball of metal clutched in his hand, outlined with a blazing white light. Whatever it was, Stryker clearly regarded it as some sort of Holy Grail.

_Why is that little chunk of metal so important?_ she wondered.

Aloud, she said, "any details, sir? I need sommat to get my teeth into."

"Patience," the General laughed, tossing the metal ball in his palm. "It all depends very much on a mission I'm currently planning, so nothing is certain yet."

Snatching the metal ball from the air with finality, he tucked it back into his breast pocket.

"Dismissed," he murmured.

Throwing him a quick salute, Helena turned on her heel and marched from the office, tugging the door closed behind her. Waiting until the outer door closed too, Stryker picked up his desktop phone.

"Zero," he said quietly into the mouthpiece. "Watch her. If all goes to plan in Lagos, we have our ideal test subject."

*****

Bark rough against her scalp, Helena leaned her head back against the tree trunk and took a pull from a bottle of vodka. A cobalt blue dome through the treetops, the night sky was dotted with gleaming stars. This far from built up urban areas, the skyline was blessedly free from light pollution. Three miles away from the base, deep in the dense pine forest carpeting the hillside, she needed time to order her thoughts.

_Sensei would kick my arse if she caught me levelling out my psionics with vodka instead of mantra and meditation,_ she observed wryly.

Glancing at the bottle, almost a third empty, she sighed and wriggled her shoulders. Concentrating, she levitated twelve small twigs from the forest floor and arranged them in a mandala. Changing the pattern with a twitch of her nose, she focussed on quietening her mind, on reinforcing her control over her abilities. Feral instincts constantly warring with the rigorous mental discipline required to control her telepathy and telekinesis, the exercises were essential to avoid an explosive reaction. Groping for the bottle neck, questing fingers meeting empty air, she realised she was floating a foot above the ground, cross-legged.

_He was this close to spilling the beans,_ she thought fiercely. _Why is that metal so bloody important? Is it for weaponry? For augmenting? Him and Zero are thick as thieves, if anyone knows, that gun-happy lapdog does._

Ruminations interrupted as she sensed an intruding presence, her head snapped up in the blue-black darkness. Sniffing the air, she suppressed an irritated sigh. A twig snapped close by, behind and to her left.

"I can smell you, Creed," she said quietly, knowing he would hear. "What the hell d'you want?"

Victor emerged from the undergrowth, slipping noiselessly into the small clearing. The twig snap had been an intentional courtesy. He spread his taloned hands disarmingly, keeping a respectable distance.

"Me an' yer got off on the wrong foot," he announced.

Helena summoned the vodka bottle to her hand and chugged a large mouthful.

"You reckon?" she snorted, wiping her lips on her wrist. "That's gotta be the understatement of the decade."

Daring to approach, body language submissive, he dipped his bearded chin in agreement. Silhouetted against the night sky, his features were in shadow bar the gleam of his eyes and pinpoint reflections from his teeth.

"Yeah, I guess I'm sayin' I behaved like a dick," he admitted.

Pausing with the bottle part way to her lips, Helena's brows climbed to her hairline.

"Wait a minute, are you _apologising_?" she exclaimed incredulously. "Somebody slap me, is Victor Creed _sorry_?!"

He shrugged and shuffled his feet in the loam, gaze downcast. Silence. The wind skirled through the trees, rattling pine branches, scattering pungent needles across the forest floor. Tonguing the vodka from the roof of her mouth, Helena regarded him suspiciously, taking careful note of his scent, stance and the thoughts occupying his mind. She gestured to the spot at her side with the sloshing bottle.

Creed thumped down next to her, head level with hers as she bobbed gently in the air. He took the offered bottle, swallowed a healthy mouthful and passed it back. A racoon skittered into the clearing, spotted the two mutants, chattered in alarm and scurried away.

"You know, I almost believed you," she said softly, grimly amused. "You're not sorry, Victor, you're just miffed I didn't roll over with my backside in the air like a good little bitch."

Laughter rumbled from his barrel chest and he shrugged unapologetically. He plucked the bottle from her fingers and took another hefty slug.

"Yeah, well at least I'm consistent."

He fixed her with his black eyes, a clawed hand resting casually at his crooked knee. He appeared relaxed, but a certain tension to his spine betrayed him.

"I see somethin' I want an' I take it," he paused and smirked. "Or I try ta. Not used ta not gettin' what I want."

She reclaimed the vodka with a derisive snort, bobbing on the air in a lotus position. "Instant gratification, I get it. You need to learn the art of patience, sunshine."

He leaned closer, venturing to run a sharp ivory claw down the side of her cheek. The amount of pressure was calculated, enough to tingle, but not quite enough to break the skin. She had seen Creed open a metal rifle case with his nails when the lock had jammed, as casually as opening a tin of beans. She did not flinch or back away, his match for fearlessness.

"Admit it, frail," he crooned, voice hushed. "Strip away all the fancy manners an' etiquette society says we gotta live by. Take it back ta what yer instincts dictate... yer liked it when I held yer down. Yer know yer've met yer alpha an' it got yer _hot._"

The last word was growled, emphasised by a flicker of tongue over his canines. Elegantly, Helena unfolded her legs from the lotus, planting her feet back onto the ground. Her boots crunched in the dry pine needles and she dropped to her knees next to the huge Canadian.

"Y'know sommat, Victor," she observed wryly, "You're right on certain details."

Fluttering up like pale moths in the darkness to rest against his massive chest, her hands gripped the lapels of his coat, chin angled so he could see the soft, vulnerable spot beneath her jaw where the pulse beat strongly.

"You can sugar coat it anyway you like, but we're creatures of instinct," she continued, leaning in, bringing her face level with his.

Unable to keep the lust from his features, Creed went to grip the back of her neck, the other hand coming around to her waist, but was stopped by a quick, warning snarl, teeth flashing white. Pushed back against the pine tree, heart pounding, blood screaming for him to act, he did nothing, mesmerised. Plump lips curling in a dominant smile, she swayed a little on her knees, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"I did like it," she whispered close to his ear, peach down cheek sliding against his beard. "But you know what I enjoyed more?"

Victor quivered with the effort of restraining himself, allowing her to finish the hunt on her terms, for now. She laughed, the sound drawing feathers across his skin, raising the fine hair on his forearms and neck. He felt teeth in the meat of his neck and growled, partly warning, partly pleasure.

"Tell me, an' it's yours."

The same laughter, this time faintly mocking. She shifted position, her left knee coming to rest inches from his groin. Hands sliding to his biceps, her fingers barely reaching quarter way around, she reared back and met his gaze.

"Collecting half that betting pool," she purred.

It took several seconds for the ramifications to sink in. Creed's eyes went wide, explosive fury igniting in their inky depths as he realised he could smell Logan on her. The scent was faint, almost drowned by a recent shower and changed clothing. With a snarled curse, he made to throw her off and lunge, but found he was unable to move. Straining, tendons cording in his neck, he struggled fruitlessly as she leisurely stood and brushed the pine needles from her combats.

"You're an animal, Victor," she said coldly, standing over him. "Whatever concept of honour you had died in Vietnam."

She shook her head, disgust and pity comingling in her expression. Slamming him against the trunk with an eye-flicker, causing a loose branch to clatter to the floor, she shrugged.

"The sad thing is, I know you were a good man once, a soldier who fought for his country. When did you start fighting just for the killing?"

Creed yowled at her, murder in the sound. "I'll fuckin' rip your head off, bitch!"

She shook her head definitively. "No, you won't. Stryker will have you put down like a rabid mongrel if you try it. I'm his current blue-eye."

Spitting rage and thwarted lust, he strained against the telekinetic shackles. "Yer think I care what that jumped-up kid thinks?!"

Chuckling humourlessly, she dipped her chin in agreement. Summoning the vodka, she snatched it from the air and drank several mouthfuls.

"Nah, you don't give a flying shite," she concurred. "But you still care what James thinks... you willing to risk going head-to-head with your baby brother? You're all each other have got. Women come and go, but if you drive him away, you're alone for good."

Creed snarled wordless frustration, falling flat on his face as the imprisoning telekinesis abruptly vanished. Spitting out pine needles and soil, he scrambled upright in time to see her strolling away into the forest. Half-leaping forward, he clenched his fists and ground his teeth, realising she was utterly correct; he would not risk alienating his brother over a woman. As she disappeared into the thickets, he roared impotently and lashed out at the nearest trunk, sending a spray of pungent sap and wood chips into the night air.

"One day," he vowed darkly. "You'll get a chance ta try out dyin'."


	8. Chapter 8

The magnified white blood cells swam in and out of focus, causing the young medic to blink and scrub at his eyes with a latex-gloved hand. Realising he had contaminated himself, he swore, snapped the gloves into a nearby medical waste bin and slipped on another pair with practised ease. The large, plastic clock on the wall read just past 1am, but he was working a late shift. With a pipette, he introduced a tiny amount of bacteria to the sample – salmonella swabbed from an egg sandwich left in the sun. Fascinated, he watched the explosive immuno-reaction as the mutant blood swarmed and obliterated the invading germ.

"Awesome," he murmured to himself, adding another drop, then another, all for the sight of a healing factor at work on a cellular level.

"My, my, you know how to make a girl blush," an amused English voice observed.

Startled, the medic jumped with fright, knocking the Petri dish off the table. It floated, as if on an ocean current, scooped up by telekinesis. Returning it to the microscope platform with a flick of her finger, Helena Draven leaned nonchalantly against the lab door, arms folded. She flashed a quick blade of a smile and pushed herself away from the frame, shaking back her loose curls.

"Thanks," the medic stuttered. "Um, I-I mean."

He broke off, ears reddening with embarrassment. Never good with people, the varying strong personalities of the Special Task Force bewildered, infuriated and terrified him in equal measure. The British mutant intrigued and frightened him, with her executioner's smile and girl-next-door freckles. To him, she had seemed like an extra from an old Ealing comedy playing solider. That was until the previous week. A raid on an arms factory supplying the drug trade in Detroit had proven successful, but produced several casualties. His memory flashed on her face, half obscured with gelid dried blood, teeth dyed crimson. A rocket casing the thickness of her thigh protruded from her abdomen, garlanded in torn flesh and grey pearls of intestine.

"Just get the fucking thing _OUT!_" her agonised howl of fury echoed through the medbay and down the corridors as she thrashed and swore and bled.

By some miracle, the rocket had failed to explode on impact, but had lanced through her belly and lower back. Fred Dukes burst into the medbay with her draped over his shoulder like a hobbled deer, bellowing that it was lodged against her spine.

"Hit me, Fred," she commanded, lips white with blood loss, skinned back over her teeth. "Knock me out."

"What?!" Dukes exclaimed, horrified, massive arms soaked with her blood.

At his back, Wade and Wraith trotted in, supporting a pinch-faced Zero between them, his formerly pristine white shirt stained violent poppy red. As usual, Wilson looked sardonically amused.

"Just knock me out!" she snarled through the agony. "They can't anesthetize me to remove it, so _knock me the fuck OUT!"_

Not understanding, Fred dithered, brow pleated with confusion and apprehension. Striding past him, snapping his dislocated shoulder back into place, Logan tossed aside the panicking medics like paper dolls and delivered a hard, accurate strike to her left temple. He was forced to knock her unconscious a further three times before the rocket was safely removed.

Shuddering at the memory, the medic recalled how less than two hours later she had walked unaided from the sickbay, announcing she needed a shower, followed by vodka and some chocolate. Agent Zero was less fortunate, sustaining some nasty lacerations and three broken ribs. Lacking the necessary mutation, he was still confined to bed rest and taking out his sullen temper on the nurses. Wade Wilson had left the Korean with some grapes and a sarcastic get-well note. The medic suspected more damage had been done to Zero's pride.

Major Draven's smile widened, mischief dancing in her eyes. He felt unaccountably nervous, like a baby rabbit faced with a she-wolf. She drifted across the lab, making a show of peering into beakers and at the various high-end machines while he blushed and fussed with his samples. Suddenly, she was at his side, making him jump for a second time.

"Nervous little bugger, aren't you?" she twinkled, gaze skipping to his name badge. "Don't worry, Charlie, I don't bite... much."

Charlie laughed, to his own ears the sound just that little too high pitched. She slung herself onto the nearest stool, swinging her legs like a little girl.

"So," she ventured conversationally. "What's the good General got you science boys working on this week?"

When he grimaced and failed to answer, she cocked her head, "C'mon. I promise I won't tell. Girl Guide's honour and all that."

Charlie shook his head regretfully. "Sorry, Major. I don't know – nobody gets the full project details. Leastways, nobody on the grunt level, like me."

Overhead, the light flickered twice as the generators changed over, scooping out eyes with shadows. In that instant, his attention diverted, she slipped in a fishhook of telepathy, so deft a manoeuvre it would remain unnoticed by all but the deepest scans. She had no way of knowing if staff were checked for telepathic intrusion and so erred on the side of caution.

"But you suspect?" she prompted gently, tugging the intangible line in his subconscious.

Charlie nodded, slowly, brown eyes opiate glazed as she tweaked the pleasure centres in his brain. He sighed contentedly, rewarded for giving acceptable answers, eyelids fluttering, a small smile on his face. In his mind's eye, he was five years old, running through his grandmother's backyard with her chocolate Labrador on an endless summer afternoon. Guiltless, guileless and pliable.

"What do you suspect, Charlie?" Helena asked softly, feral ears alert for the sound of anyone approaching the lab.

He swayed on the balls of his feet, left hand cupping around a phantom ball for the Labrador to chase.

"They're scoping you guys out," he declared. "Seeing which of the ferals can take the most punishment. They've had us test blood samples with everything from radiation to smallpox."

Throwing the imaginary ball, he sighed again, gaze distant and unfocussed. "I'd bet my last Oreo they're looking to do some kind of surgical implantation, from what Dr. Cornelius says."

Charlie placed a finger to his lips. "Sssh! I'm not s'posed to know that! I overheard him talking to the General in the men's room. They shut up when I came out the stall!"

He giggled like a naughty toddler caught with a hand in the biscuit tin, voice veering between five year old and adult. Helena felt her heart begin to trip as she connected two dots in her mind. A special project requiring a special candidate. She fit the bill, Stryker had told her himself.

"Who've they got earmarked, Charlie?" she kept her voice soothing, free from the growing tension in her gut.

"You," he said simply.

Ice forming in the pit of her stomach, she swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. Pulling on the connection to the medic's entranced mind, she peered in a little further, leaving him to play with his grandmother's dog. Several minutes later she was satisfied he knew nothing more of significance. Slithering down from the stool, she frowned.

"Ok, Charlie-boy," she instructed crisply. "You'll remember we had a chat about football and I ribbed you about your team losing last season. Nothing more."

Charlie shivered and blinked, awareness returning. Eyes watering, he looked uncertainly at the English mutant, who clapped him companionably on the shoulder.

"Nice chatting to you," she enthused. "Ain't insomnia a pain in the arse? Think I'll head for the hills now. Night!"

With that, she sauntered from the lab, leaving him with diminishing confusion as her expert telepathic suggestion rewrote his memory of the last half hour. Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the sample on the microscope platform.

Moving stealthily down the corridor, Helena rounded the corner into a four way intersection to find Logan leaning against a weapon's locker door. His stance was casual as he fished in his breast pocket for a stogie, but his scent gave him away.

"Now, either yer slipped the lab kid sodium pentathol," he rumbled. "Or yer've got one more corkscrew in yer Swiss Army knife."

He pressed a thick finger to his temple in an exaggerated impression of a mind-reader, eyes scrunched crescents as he pretended to think.

"Guess which one my money's on?"

Helena merely looked at him, expression unreadable, unconsciously dropping her weight back on her heels in preparation. She would fight and drop him where he stood if forced to. Hazel eyes molten with fury, he squared up to her when she did not answer, dog tags jangling at his chest. Looming over her, he rolled his shoulders, a habitual expression of aggression that usually caused grown men to back away. He had heard every word, feral ears picking up her voice from two corridors away, curiosity leading him close enough to listen to the conversation.

"Goddamn it, Hels!" he spat, slamming his open hand against the bulkhead by her right ear with a clang. The metal groaned and buckled a fraction with the force of the blow. "Just when I'd got myself convinced yer not playin' me! Yer could've wiped me like a chalk slate an' rewritten me ta sing the Hallelujah chorus an' I'd never know it!"

To his immense surprise, she flinched and her face fell, dark brows pleating as she took a step forward to protest her innocence. He growled a warning, low and menacing.

"I'm not playing you!" she exclaimed, hands raised disarmingly.

"Like hell!" he shot back venomously. "What kind of fuckin' game is this, English? Yer could've got what yer wanted straight from the brainpan!"

Her eyes flashed, the ivory points of her claws pricking through the skin between her knuckles as her splayed hands curled into fists.

"You think it's that easy, sunshine?!" she shouted angrily, then winced and lowered her voice. "If it was that bloody easy, why haven't I just knocked on Stryker's door and scrimmied through his mind like a basketful of dirty socks?"

Struggling to keep a rein on his temper, Logan bunched his fists, knuckles cracking like pellets striking tin cans.

"Why've yer kept it ta yerself?" he demanded harshly. " An' more's the point, _how've_ yer kept it secret with all these medical tests?"

Helena shrugged dismissively, making a conscious effort to keep her claws within their sheaths, nestled between tendons and bone.

"Almost impossible to tell telepathy and telekinesis apart in the genetic code. And you think General Arsehole would've let me within twenty miles if he thought I could read minds?"

The Canadian snarled. "Yer a lyin' little bitch. Vic was right."

She shook her head and ventured to step closer, sensing the outrage and hurt in his mind. Stung by his accusation, perturbed to find she cared what he thought enough to feel so, she swallowed her emotion and focussed on diffusing the situation.

"No," she said softly. "I'm not. A bitch, probably. Lying? No."

Ignoring his derisive snort, she touched his arm, stepping into his personal space. His spine stiffened, but he did not push her away.

"Look at me, Logan. You know I'm telling you the truth," she murmured. His mouth twisted and he looked away. Fingers rising to his bearded cheek, she lowered his chin to look into his eyes, tone sharpening. "I said _look at me!_ I haven't messed with your memories or decision making, nor have I tricked my way into your bed. You would smell it if I'm lying, wouldn't you?"

He glowered down at her, trying to convince himself the clear green of her eyes was deceptive. If it was, the secret meetings to talk, drink and engage in roughhouse hand-to-hand that was always foreplay were rendered meaningless and empty. The thought infuriated him. He did not want to plane his life back to nothing but waiting for the next mission, the next battle, the next war. The next time Victor lost control and started killing indiscriminately. Inhaling deeply, his nose told him the incontrovertible fact she had been entirely truthful. Relief and frustration at odds, he was momentarily torn between engulfing her in his arms and shaking her until she rattled like a bone puppet. The former impulse won and he crushed her to his chest, nose in her hair while he listened to her heart smash against her ribs like a trapped fox.

"Goddamn it, Hels," he muttered ferociously. "I hate this shit."

She sagged a little against him, arms wrapped tight about his waist, abruptly seeming slight and vulnerable.

"I hate it too," her voice was muffled by his shirt, but vehement. Raising her face, she caught his gaze. "But it's my job."

Frowning, he cupped her elbows and held her at arm's length, realising she was asking him to make the leap. "Are yer sayin' what I think yer are? Yer a flamin' _cuckoo?_"

She nodded quickly, a brief flash of anxiety appearing in her features as she broke the cardinal rule of covert operations and exposed herself as a plant.

"Yeah," she confirmed succinctly. "I'm here to gather intel, and if necessary, shut the bastard down."

Breath whistling from him in a long, disbelieving stream, Logan shook his head, fingers tightening at her elbows.

"Fuckin' hell," he swore at length. "Somebody must be convinced Stryker's playin' left of field to send yer in, darlin'. So what are yer? S.H.I.E.L.D?"

Helena shook her head and gave a snort of laughter. "Nah, Nicolas Fury isn't my biggest fan. Gave the arrogant old git one more scar to remember me by. Let's just say I'm a British patriot and leave it at that."

Logan cocked his head, eyes narrowing. "So yer S.T.R.I.K.E? Or E.D.I?"

She shrugged noncommittally, but her eyes were wary. Gripping his lapels, she moved in close as his hands settled at her slender waist.

"I'm trusting you with my life telling you this, Canuck," she said quietly. "Usually, the only people who find out are on the business end of my claws and don't have time to phone a friend. You heard what Charlie said – Stryker's got me earmarked for whatever monkey business him and Cornelius are brewing. I have to find out what he's doing sharpish and report in."

Logan gazed down at her serious face, her hips tight to his, the soft swell of her breasts pressed to his diaphragm. Unconsciously, he pulled her even closer, feeling uncharacteristically protective.

"S'not like he can force yer inta anythin', yer'd have ta volunteer," he offered, not believing the words even as he spoke them.

"You reckon?" she asked, softly, calmly. "I'm sure that's what the butchered Nigerian mutant I saw five months ago thought."

Tangling her fingers in his wild hair, she pulled him to her for a long, fierce kiss. Breaking free to breathe, she cradled the back of his neck.

"When the time comes, love, and it will, I've one thing to ask," she said, running her index finger down the line of his jaw.

"Name it," he said gruffly.

All soldier and merciless assassin, cold and unforgiving as the Northern Territories winters of his youth, her jaw firmed.

"Stay out of my way."

Understanding perfectly, Logan nodded mutely. Palming his muttonchops, he kissed her forehead.

"Until then, darlin'," he agreed. "We gotta take what we can where we can."

She smiled then, but the same lost and sad something lurked behind her eyes. As they rounded the corner toward the team's sleeping quarters, she caught his hand and gave it a brief squeeze. Feeling his heart swell with strange, unaccustomed emotion, Logan realised he had amended his definition of 'us' to include somebody other than his brother.


	9. Chapter 9

It was one of the rare quiet times, with no training, medicals or mission profiling to worry about. Reclining in a corner of the Special Task force's rec room, a bottle of Canadian Gold at his elbow, Logan occupied himself sketching with a soft pencil. He had numerous pads full of captured moments stretching back to the civil war, most stored in safety deposit boxes back in Alberta. Any military historian would have given their eye teeth for a peek at them. Supping reflectively at his beer, he busied himself with his latest drawing. Chewing the end of the pencil, he cocked his head, examining the shading. Finding it lacking, he rotated the page and began work on the required areas.

"Whatcha sketchin' this time?"

Shadow falling across the paper, Victor reached down and plucked the pad from his fingers, flipping it over to look. Grinning at the partially completed study of Helena Draven, the ghosted lines of her reclining form, he tossed the pad dismissively onto the table.

"Is she that good a lay?" he leered. "Usually they are if yer set ta sketchin' 'em. She's de-balled yer good, little brother."

Logan shrugged unconcernedly and retrieved his pad, pencil scratching at the paper as he resumed work. He shaded in the curve of her waist, adding depth and texture to her hair.

"No good being a sore loser, Vic," he observed, unable to keep the triumphant note from his voice. Sometimes, it was good to remind Victor the alpha throne was far from secure. "She made her choice an' it weren't yer. Get over it."

Creed visibly bridled at the comment. "Watch yer mouth, runt."

Logan looked up, twirling the pencil in his fingers, tips stained carbon black. He cocked his head and gave a slow smile he knew would infuriate his older sibling.

"C'mon, old man," he grinned. "Yer don't lose very often. Be a bit gracious. I promise not ta pinch the next one."

Black eyes narrowing with irritation, Creed's massive paw came up to cuff the smirk from his face. Catching his huge wrist in his open palm with a thud, Logan shook his head.

"No, not this time, Vic," he warned, tightening his grip until the bones creaked. "I'm done scrappin' with yer over women. We've done that too many times. It's gotten old, like us."

A nasty grin appeared on Creed's bearded features, filled with wolfish teeth. Sometimes it was good to remind his younger brother who the top dog was.

"Mebbe I'm gettin' older, but not slower."

He lunged, knocking aside the table like it was made of balsa. Diving from his seat to avoid the blow, Logan growled annoyance as Victor's claws rent the cushions, scattering yellow foam as he pulled back his fist. The damage would come out of their paycheques. Ploughing into his stomach, he drove him to the floor and backhanded him across the face. Creed's nose broke in a hot gush, reforming seconds later into its original shape.

"Sonofabitch!" he roared indignantly, rearing up to head butt his brother.

Wiping at his own repairing septum, Logan snarled, locking his hands around Victor's neck, throttling. Wrestling, growling and thrashing across the rec room floor, overturning tables, smashing chairs, they worked through months of unresolved tension. Purple bruise continents mapped their flesh, eroding to nothing before the rippling healing tide. Ribs breadstick snapped and reformed as torn hair regrew. Jumping to their feet, they boxed ferociously, insulting and taunting each other in ever more inventive ways.

"Yer fuckin'mangy ol' dog! Logan bellowed. "S'no wonder she passed yer over! Somebody needs ta put yer down!"

Dodging the accompanying left hook, Victor suddenly lashed out with his claws instead of his closed fist. Teeth bared in a vicious grin, he ripped back his hooked fingers to strike again, then froze, mouth a slack loop of shock. Bone glinting through the lacerations at the bridge of his nose, hairline and chin, blood dripping into his eyes, Logan numbly reached up and pressed the hanging flaps back into place. The brothers stared at each other in horrified silence, amidst the debris of the rec room. They never used their claws on each other, no matter how brutal the altercation.

"Jimmy, I..." Victor trailed off and grimaced, realising it could not be taken back or undone.

Wiping his bloodied palms on his combat fatigues, Logan held his brother's gaze for a long, intense moment. They stared at each other, breathing hard, stray dogs tussling over a meaty bone. Mouth turning down at the corners, Logan wordlessly turned and stalked from the room, leaving Victor in the wreckage. Fists clenching at his sides, his gaze fell to his boots.

"Shit," he muttered in dismay. "Never was that good at knowin' when ta stop."

Glancing up, he saw Agent Zero at the doorway, immaculate in a starched white shirt and black tie. The Korean regarded him inscrutably, omnipresent handgun in a holster at his breast. Zero folded his arms and leaned on the doorframe.

"We have an important mission coming up, Creed," he announced, ignoring the Canadian mutant's challenging glower. "Depending on the outcome, General Stryker believes we may have to subdue Draven. He also assures me we can count on your cooperation in this matter. That true?"

Flexing his spurred hands, Victor tongued his incisors, black eyes sparking with sudden interest.

"Reckon it just might be. Tell me more."

***

Peering down the titanium edge of his katana, Wade Wilson picked up a whetstone and began zinging it down the blade. He whistled as he sharpened the weapon, the familiar ritual serving to order his thoughts and keep the sword in pristine condition. The twin blade lay sheathed across his back, already sharpened. Sat in a ruined armchair, the cushion spilling foam guts and torn stitching, a can of Cola between his feet. He looked up as Helena Draven wandered into the rec room and stopped short, regarding the carnage.

"Did the SAS rampage through here and nobody told me?" she asked, nudging aside a broken stool with her boot.

Wade shook his head, whetstone still screeching down the sword blade. "Nope. The Brothers Hairy decided to hold an impromptu therapy session. Maybe they weren't breastfed as babies, who knows? I'm sure it was very instructional."

The English mutant sucked her teeth reflectively, brows climbing towards her hairline in apparent surprise. Picking her way through the destruction, she opened the refrigerator and selected a carton of orange juice. Popping a claw, she opened the top and filled one of the few unbroken glasses.

"Y'know," Wade continued conversationally. "Stryker's taking the damage costs outta _all_ our paycheques. Bolt had his little heart set on a scale replica locomotive..."

Draven shrugged and leaned back on the counter, glass cradled to her chest. "So? We earn more in a month than we know what to do with."

Giving the whetstone a final, decisive slice down the blade, Wilson tucked it into his pocket. Rising to his feet, he gave an experimental flick, spinning the sword in a dazzling arc. Grinning, more to himself, he gestured to her with the deadly point.

"Gotta hand it to you, sweetcheeks," he observed mildly. "I've seen those boys get stabbed, shot up and outnumbered ten to one, but nothing rattles them like you do. I'm kinda jealous. I used to have the monopoly on scary crazy around here."

She smiled, shoulder lifting nonchalantly. "Well, I've got two little somethings you haven't, Wade."

"Oh?" he asked.

"Boobs."

They both laughed at that. Sheathing his sword across his back, the blade hissing into the scabbard, Wilson summoned his best charming smile.

"When you get bored, come talk to your Uncle Wade," he invited, giving his patented twinkle. "I've a private yacht in Miami and I mix a mean Manhattan. I'm sure you've got an itsy bitsy bikini or two."

Sipping her orange, Helena shook her head. "Come off it, Wilson," she scoffed. "Your ideal woman is California blonde, has the intellectual capacity of a parsnip and boobs like zeppelins. I don't fall into any of those categories, thank God. You just wanna piss off those two sufficiently so you get to see if you _can_ kill them."

Wade beamed and snapped his fingers in mock frustration. "Damn, rumbled. Though, Jimmy, I kinda like. Victor, on the other hand, I'd happily ventilate. No appreciation for the finer things in life. Yourself being the exception, natch."

Chuckling, Helena kneaded the bridge of her nose in faux despair. "You're completely outta your bloody mind, mate. That gob of yours just operates independently from your brain, doesn't it?"

Stealing her glass to take a swig, Wilson smacked his lips and handed it back.

"What can I say?" he announced with an eye roll. "I always wanted to travel to far off places, meet new, interesting people, then kill them. It's why I became a merc. I love my job. Don't you?"

Green eyes hardening like agate, she pushed herself away from the counter top. "At this precise moment? No, I don't."

Making her way to the door, she paused and turned back to the talkative mercenary.

"You keep that killer instinct directed where it should be, sunshine. Else you and I will be having words."

Wilson cocked a crooked smile and threw her a salute. "Yes Ma'am. Wouldn't dream of spoiling your fun, Ma'am... Still reckon we'd have more on my yacht, take a little cruise, see if we can get that English rose skin to tan up from blue to white."

She sniffed disparagingly, but took a step away from the doorframe. Hand on her cocked right hip, she allowed her gaze to travel appraisingly over Wade Wilson, who grinned and preened at his sandy hair. Eyes tracking over lean waist and muscular chest, lingering over his sinewy swordsman's arms with apparent interest, she met his gaze. After a few moments, Wade began to feel uncomfortable, vaguely threatened in the same way he later realised women must when faced with uninvited sexual attention from men. Just as he opened his mouth to rattle off a smutty comment, to relieve the unaccustomed feeling of objectification, she deigned to break eye contact.

"Sorry, Wade," she declared with a quarter smile and mock solemnity. "I'm afraid you're too, well, _vanilla_ for my tastes. That, and a little young... probably still wet behind the ears. I'm twice your age."

Wilson stiffened with indignant umbrage. "Vanilla?!"

She laughed uproariously, stepping forward to tweak his nose like he was an uppity schoolboy.

"Poor love," she clucked. "There's such a thing as batting outside your league. Try Lieutenant Singer again, she's blonde and easily impressed."

Realising he was being played with, like a cat plays with a fledgling fallen from the nest, Wilson scrunched his mouth petulantly.

"Oh, that's rich," he muttered. "I'm gonna take my ball and go home now. Don't wanna play with the big girls anymore."

Watching her shake with silent laughter and head once more for the doorway, he inclined his head.

"Do you ever wonder if you _can _die?" he directed the question to her departing back. "I'm curious."

Helena Draven stopped short, slender fingers curled at her side, the points of her claws tenting the skin between her knuckles. She looked back, old eyes in a young face.

"Every bloody day."


	10. Chapter 10

**Amsterdam – the Red Light District**

John Wraith removed a twenty guilder note from the brim of his cream Stetson, tucking it into the nearest sequined bra with a grin. Cooing her thanks, the stripper gyrated, flashing a little nipple along with her backside shimmy. Frosty beers in hand, he and Chris Bradley watched the show from a private booth. Eight girls paraded along a runway set with polished metal poles and glitter balls, to the whistles, catcalls and cheering of the enthusiastic audience.

"Now this, man, is more like it!" he announced, gesturing to the show with a sloshing bottle. "We've been cooped up on base too long."

Bolt looked dubious and mildly embarrassed. "They're brasses, John. They'd drop their knickers for Quasimodo if you paid them."

"Say what?"

"I said, they're _whores!_" Bolt raised his voice against the booming Eurotrash disco.

Wraith looked at the Englishman with evident confusion, pushing back his hat to scratch his head. "And the problem is?"

Chugging a few gulps of beer, admitting to himself it was better than the American equivalent, Bolt pointed with his chin to the third booth on the opposite side of the runway.

"Van Djik certainly doesn't mind," he commented. "But he runs girls and black market diamonds for a living."

Both mutants looked across the club to the VIP area, at a skinny Dutchman dripping in Armani and women. The favoured girls wore examples of his merchandise in their ears or at their ample, silicone-enhanced cleavages. Stroking his narrow goatee, Van Djik snapped his fingers for another bottle of champagne, free arm draped around a giggling blonde with cocaine-white nostrils.

"Not that I'm complaining," Wraith drawled. "But how long are we gonna stay here? It's been three hours."

Bradley shrugged, eyes momentarily sliding shut as he monitored communications. "Until Lady Serena Montague and retinue deign to show up, which should be right about.... now."

Tipping the brim of his hat with his bottle neck, Wraith cocked an eyebrow and unobtrusively turned to look at the door. A small commotion occurred as the doorman was shoved aside by a massive hand in his chest. Bouncing from the door lintel with a grunt, he went to argue, then thought better of it, unclipping the scarlet rope across the entrance to usher the new guests through.

"Hold on to your hat, mucker," Bolt muttered.

Clean-shaven, dressed in sober but expensive dark suits and snowy white shirts, Creed and Logan stalked into the foyer. Staring challengingly around, they turned in unison and crooked their arms. Draped in a crimson silk gown and sable wrap, décolleté and ears ablaze with multiple diamonds, Helena Draven stepped gracefully through the door. Pausing long enough to allow her arrival to be noted, she gazed imperiously around the club, communicating her distaste with a moue of her lipsticked mouth. Patting at her elaborately piled hair, she slipped an arm through each offered elbow. Descending the stairs, heels clicking, she whispered into Creed's ear, who snarled at a passing waitress to fetch the most expensive champagne they had.

Almost sputtering his beer down his shirtfront, Wraith wiped his chin and laughed. "Goddamn, she's loving this. Think Victor is gonna stroke out any minute from plain ol' indignation. Don't think those two have shaved their beards since the turn of the century."

Bolt grinned, "profilers said Van Djik's got three main weaknesses; diamonds, women and money. 'Lady Serena' ticks all his boxes. Who'd have thought a sewer-mouthed Scouse bird could do upper crust totty, eh?"

Van Djik, attention drawn by the gasps from his entourage, irritably turned to look. Pale grey eyes darting from the fortune in diamonds at her throat, to her minders, he jerked upright. Draining his glass, elbowing away the coked-up blonde trying to snuggle into his side, his head bobbed like a predatory bird. Beckoning to a lackey with an obvious holster bulge beneath his jacket, he indicated with his chin.

Slinking into a seat, nodding to the brothers, who sat either side, scanning the club for threats, Helena allowed the trembling waitress to pour chilled champagne. Waving the girl away with a fifty guilder note and instructions to open a tab, she settled back against the plush cushions. Sipping slowly, she pulled a face.

"Urgh, even their 'best' is cheap shit," she muttered. "Gimme decent single malt any day."

"What now?" Victor demanded, staring with disdain at the fragile champagne flute, which looked like something from a child's tea set in his huge hand.

"We play our assigned roles, my boy," she answered in a plumy upper class English accent, all traces of Liverpool vernacular erased. "Much as we may find them trying. We've dropped all the right breadcrumbs, so all we do now is wait."

"Or not," Logan observed, watching Van Djik's man slip through the crowds.

Leaping up, palm held up to block his approach, Logan squared his shoulders and glared. "That's far enough, bub."

Halting apologetically, the lackey dipped his head deferentially and held out an ice-sheathed bottle of vintage Bollinger and two glasses.

"With compliments from your host, Mr. Van Djik," he announced in perfect English.

Without looking, she lazily swung her hand back until it met Victor's chest and dropped her glass into his outstretched palm, then allowed her fingers to rest against his thigh. Creed's gaze never left the lackey, radiating hostility, one fang showing as the Dutchman's eyes widened upon seeing his claws. Helena smiled and nodded to Logan, who took the bottle, popped the cork and filled the fresh glass. Accepting it with a gracious head tilt, she sipped with evident pleasure.

"Mr. Van Djik would like to join you, Miss...?"

"Lady," she corrected haughtily. "Lady Montague. Thank our host for his kind gift, but I shan't be dallying long and simply cannot spare the time."

Opening his mouth to press the point, he clamped his lips into a line as Logan stepped in front of him.

"Lady Serena don't like to be disturbed," he growled. "When she gets upset, I get upset, if yer catch my drift?"

Looking from the small, superior smile of the super rich on Lady Montague's face, to the scowl on her bodyguard's, Van Djik's man retreated with a bow, melting into the crowd to relay the rebuttal.

"You oughta write that shit down, Jimmy," Victor remarked, deciding to risk a mouthful of champagne. "Sounds like somethin' outta a real bad porno."

He grunted with sudden discomfort as Helena dug her fingers into his thigh. "Now, now, boys!" she reprimanded, then lowered her voice so only feral ears would catch it. "Pack it in, we can't afford to mess this one up."

"I'm bored already," Creed growled petulantly. "Why can't we just torture the little Dutch prick until we get what we want?"

Thudding down at Helena's side, Logan took up her hand and kissed it with a theatrical flourish, earning a cheek pat and a genuine smile.

"Ah, fer fuck's sake," Victor muttered.

Gripping his beardless jaw, varnished nails glittering like fresh blood in the club lights, Helena leaned in close, green eyes boring into black.

"'Cos we don't wanna tip off the big boys in Nigeria," she hissed, nose inches from his. Placing her thumb on his lip, daring him to bite, she dropped a kiss on his cheek for the benefit of observers. "Though what the brass wants with diamond dealers, I don't know. So shut the fuck up before I take out your eyes with my stilettos."

Nipping the pad of her thumb, grinning as her gaze darkened, although the pain did not show in her expression, Creed folded her hand in his, palming away the blood as the small wound healed in an instant.

"Promises, promises," he chuckled, licking the red stain from his lower lip.

"Victor," Logan snarled quietly. "Quit it."

Creed smiled nastily and poured them all more champagne. Raising his glass, he toasted. "To Lady Serena!"

Raising her glass with a brittle smile, smothering the urge to bury her claws to the knuckle in his throat, Helena touched her earring. "Bolt, you getting a good read on us, mate?"

Across the club, Chris Bradley raised his bottle and clinked it against Wraith's. His lips moved, voice crackling in her ear. "Good enough to know the Brothers Hairy are bickering already, hon. Mebbe you should've brought Wade instead?"

Twirling the glass stem in her fingers, leaning back in her seat between her minders, the consummate aristocrat slumming it in Europe, she snorted softly. "Nah, I'd have defo lost it and killed him by now. Three weeks of making grand entrances in diamonds and furs is wearing a bit thin as it is."

Her gaze lingered hungrily over Logan, clean-shaven and immaculate in a two thousand dollar suit. "Though it does have its' upsides."

Hazel eyes twinkling, he gave a mischievous grin, touching a fingertip to the jewels at her throat, warmed by her skin. "Yer got that one right, English. Yer think yer can keep that dress after we're done here?"

Shattering glass swallowed her reply as Victor gripped the champagne flute a little too hard. Dropping the shards, grinding them to powder under his loafer heel, he pulled a splinter out of his palm before the flesh healed over it.

"Big fish dead ahead," he reported flatly. "Ready fer reelin' in. Time ta do yer aristo thing, frail."

Van Djik approached, flanked by two identikit cronies, his gaggle of women sent away with cocaine and cash to soothe their feelings. He was a short, slender man, with neat hands and an ascetic expression completely at odds with his decadent lifestyle. Rising from his seat to tower over the diminutive Dutchman, Creed gazed down impassively, as if deciding which bone to pick his teeth with.

"Lady Montague," Van Djik greeted. "I trust the champagne was to your liking?"

Beckoning Victor back to her side with a lazy wave, Helena favoured the diamond dealer with a polite smile.

"Mr. Van Djik, I presume? The gift was much appreciated."

"Call me Kristoff," he declared, slipping into the chair opposite, nodding to his cronies, who took up positions facing the crowd to deter interruptions.

"I wasn't aware we are on first name terms," Helena observed with an arched brow, allowing him to reach over the table and top up her glass.

Van Djik smiled, revealing expensive dental work. "Ah, but all my friends call me by my given name, and I'm sure you and I will get along exceedingly well."

He paused, freezing in place as Victor idly drew a smiley face on the table top with his barbed index finger. The Canadian looked up and blew the curl of wood from beneath his nail like a child blowing out birthday candles.

"Do my boys bother you, Mr. Van Djik?" the Lady asked with amusement, her bejewelled hands pointedly resting on her bodyguards' knees. "I do sincerely hope not, as where I go, they go. We're all rather attached to each other."

Burying his mild alarm, the diamond smuggler forced a smile. "No, of course not. I have several mutants on my staff. We hold no prejudice here in Amsterdam."

"But of course. Such a marvellous city."

Rubbing his thumb through the permafrost on the champagne bottle, Van Djik smiled, but the expression did not quite reach his pale eyes.

"And what brings you to us, milady. Business or pleasure?"

Lady Montague laughed, softly, one hand fluttering up to caress the smooth-shaven jaw of the smaller bodyguard, the other remaining at his colleague's thigh.

"Both, my dear Kristoff. Diamonds are my business and pleasure, amongst other things." Her white fingers trailed across the princess cut jewels at her neck. "And I have a mind to increase my collection."

Refilling her glass, he shrugged disinterestedly. "The diamond market is an excellent place to acquire quality stones."

Abruptly, she ceased idly fondling her bodyguards and sat forward, drumming her long fingers with evident displeasure.

"Come now, Kristoff," she admonished. "Don't be coy. Do you really think I would frequent an establishment such as this without good reason? My sources tell me you're the man to see."

Setting the frosty green bottle back on the tabletop, Van Djik took stock of the situation. The moneyed English Lady and her mutant heavies had cut a swath through the bars and private clubs in the last month, appearing on his radar long before they arrived at his strip club. He owned some of the places they had previously visited, splashing money and alcohol like water. Regarding the hired muscle, he reasoned dangerous men did not come cheap, and nobody employed such individuals without good reason.

"And who would your sources be?" he asked evenly.

Although neither moved, the bodyguards seemed to tense, perhaps in expectation of an order to attack or clear a path to the door, should the answer not prove to the Dutchman's liking. Unobtrusively, Van Djik's heavies moved their jackets aside, hands resting near gun butts.

"Madame Dieudonne of Paris, Mr. Cripps of London and one rather weaselly chap called Bob in Antwerp," she answered easily.

Visibly relaxing, Van Djik fingered his goatee like a comic book villain. "All fine sources," he agreed. "Perhaps I can be of service, after all."

Lady Montague beamed and gushed a little, turning to snap her fingers at her clawed minder. "Alphonse, another bottle, dear boy!"

Jaw tightening until his incisors dimpled his lower lip, Creed stiff-marched away to the bar. Unable to vent his frustration, he contented himself with growling at anyone who passed too close. Gaze sliding between his lover and his brother, Logan inwardly winced. She clearly enjoyed having Creed dance attendance in enforced subservience. Concentrating, he formed a warning thought and strove to project it. Engaging Van Djik in animated conversation, exuding telepathically-enhanced charm, she appeared to ignore him. Trying again, he felt her fingers at his knee, squeezing once, then twice in acknowledgement. Whether or not she took heed was another matter entirely.

Across the club in their private booth, Wraith and Bolt kept a discreet watch on proceedings. Quaking with laughter, Bradley shook his head admiringly.

"Bloody hell, she called Vic 'Alphonse' again!"

Wraith chuckled, "Yeah, but it was 'Diego' last week. Mebbe we should start a pool on how soon he cracks an' tries to maul her to death?"

An hour passed, during which time they spent more of the US Army's cash on dancers, nachos and beer. John was temporarily divested of his hat by a petite Philipino, who engulfed him in a swirl of her canary yellow feather boa. Reclaiming it with a bark of surprised laughter, picking Maribu from his hair, his attention was drawn by a sudden stiffening of Bolt's spine.

"Bingo," he indicated across the room with a head tilt. "They're on the move. I'm gonna call it in for further instruction."

Clinging with feigned champagne-unsteadiness to Van Djik's arm, Helena allowed him to tow her towards a roped-off staircase. Tittering behind her hand as she navigated the stairs, Victor and Logan at her back, she companionably patted the Dutchman's arm. Leading the way into a comfortably-appointed viewing suite, he guided her into an outsize cream leather armchair as four security staff appeared at the doorway.

Smiling like a piranha, Van Djik opened a top-end digital safe and withdrew a black velvet pouch. Lounging in the adjoining seat, he unrolled it, revealing dozens of coldly glittering diamonds. Cooing appreciatively, she selected one the size of her thumbnail and held it to the light.

"My goodness me," she exclaimed. "Brilliant cut, triple A grade, no noticeable inclusions or flaws."

"You have an excellent eye, milady," he complimented.

Aware of the security at the door, Logan exchanged glances with Victor, who huffed a breath through his nose, eyes narrowing. The security, although visibly impassive behind mirrored Raybans, smelled on edge. Silently, they moved to cover the door and window respectively. The window led onto the rooftops, which gave a clear run across the district. As he sidestepped four paces, Logan's attention was drawn by an ebony walking cane propped in the corner. It was topped with a small ball of lumpy, slightly iridescent metal. With an inner jolt, he realised it was similar to what they had all seen Stryker toying with.

Poised with another huge diamond between thumb and forefinger, Helena met his gaze and followed it to the cane. Her eyes widened, a reaction she instantly checked. Placing the jewel back onto the velvet, she went to pick up another, quick mind formulating a plan. Van Djik caught her wrist.

"I'm afraid there's been a small change of plans," he purred, grip tightening enough to hurt a normal woman.

Smoothly, an additional six guards swung into the room, compact submachine guns in their fists. Jumping to her feet, exuding self-righteous outrage, she frowned.

"Kristoff, what on earth is the meaning of this?" she demanded, shrill, overly loud and intoxicated. "Why do those men have guns?"

Van Djik stood and straightened his silk tie fastidiously. "The problem is, _milady_, that the real Serena Montague is in Milan, and her minders are ex SAS, not mutants."

The click-clack of cocked firearms echoing, he waited for her face to drop in horror, for her to stammer an explanation or try to retreat behind her bodyguards. Instead, she touched her right earring, flicking a two-way glance that encompassed the entire room. Tipsy wobble evaporating from her stance, she shrugged and daintily stepped out of her shoes. Deportment school poise hardening to a fighting stance, she smiled, viperish. With growing confusion, Van Djik saw similar feral grins on the faces of her co-conspirators. Pivoting on their heels, all three stood back-to-back, ensuring full visibility of the room, all the more deadly for being cornered. The man she had called Alphonse uncurled his fingers, ivory claws gaining several inches.

"Take 'em out," she commanded, sounding nothing like an English aristocrat. "Except Van Djik."

The clawed mutant sprang, rebounding from the far wall, roaring, teeth flashing white. Arterial spray, violent red against cream plaster, reached the ceiling. Head ringing with gunfire, Van Djik threw himself behind his security staff, the room plunging into semi-darkness as bullets razed the lights. Body jerking like a marionette as multiple shots struck home, the smaller man shook himself like a dog and leapt, bone claws snapping from between his knuckles. Burying them in the nearest stomach, he slashed up and pulled out, spattering his white shirt. Barely pausing, he dove on the next man, the sickening crack of breaking vertebrae almost drowned by the gunfire. Van Djik cried out in horror, his mother's old superstition about red and white flowers filling his mind.

"Blood and bandages," he mumbled in Dutch. "...Jesus Christ!"

Throwing himself flat, hands protectively over his head, he shouted as the table smashed against the wall, scattering diamonds that floated like ice crystals. Peering up through his disarrayed hair, he gaped with disbelief. Crimson silk swirling around her, the imposter's hands dipped and wove like she was conducting an orchestra. Two men closest to him dropped with muffled grunts, heads cracking back in explosions of blood and skull fragments. One fell heavily across him. Heaving off the corpse, he saw something glittering in the ragged forehead wound and realised it was a large diamond.

Bare foot crushing a larynx, then breaking a jaw, her upper body snapping horizontal as she kicked, the imposter back-flipped in a billow of silk. Seconds later, another guard crumpled bonelessly to the floor, neck broken. A bullet caught her in the chest, smashing her into the wall, arms thrown above her head. She slid down, leaving a wet scarlet smear. Van Djik cackled triumphantly, the sound dying in his throat as she surged upright, bone talons hissing from her hands.

"Kill them!" he screamed hoarsely, in disbelief. "Why doesn't somebody fucking kill them?!"

Voice echoing in the sudden silence, the gunfire gone, the only sound was his own frantic heartbeat and rapid breathing. Trembling, he looked wildly around for his men. Nonchalantly, like discarding a chewed-up apple core, the larger clawed mutant dropped the last body and kicked it aside.

"Because yer can't, fuckwit," he rumbled, laughing as he poked a huge finger through the bullet holes in his suit jacket.

He took a step towards the terrified smuggler, only for the woman to block his path, her spurred hand at his chest. Gown glistening with darker red, hem torn, hair half-fallen from the chignon, she looked like a stabbing victim.

"Stand down," she ordered, quietly, with authority.

When he ignored her and made to shoulder past, her expression hardened dangerously. "I said, stand down, sunshine. Or do I have to make you?"

Thwarted murder blazing in his eyes, he ground his teeth, but sheathed his claws and leaned against the wall, massive arms folded across his chest. Retracting her talons, bone clicking on bone, she pointed a finger at Van Djik.

"Sit."

The way she said the simple word dried his mouth. When he did not move quickly enough for her liking, her upper lip curled, an invisible crushing force driving him to the floor. Quickly navigating the bodies and debris, the other man snatched up the ebony cane and tossed it to her. Briefly examining the top, she waved it under his nose.

"Where'd you get this?" she demanded. "And please bear in mind you've ruined my frock before you answer."

Van Djik shook his head, terror and confusion freezing his tongue. Nose burning with the stench of excrement, blood and cordite, his eyes watered uncontrollably.

"I-It was a gift, from a Nigerian business associate! A novelty item. J-just take the diamonds and go!"

Strong female fingers gripped his jaw, hard enough to bruise. "Who? Where is their base of operations?"

The hiss of a silencer answered. Van Djik pitched forward, a neat, smoking hole between his eyes. Recoiling in unison, Logan and Helena wheeled to find Agent Zero stood in the doorway, his weapon already in the holster.

"Zero, what the hell?!" Logan growled.

Unruffled, the Korean shrugged and examined his manicured nails. "Bolt has extracted the information we need from Van Djik's computer system. Congratulations, team, the mission is a success. Time to go home."

Striding past a visibly amused Creed, he plucked the cane from Helena's bloodied hand, unscrewed the top and dropped it into his breast pocket. Touching his earpiece, he spoke to empty air.

"Base, this is Zero. Send in the cleaners. Eleven bodies and the Dutch authorities to deal with."

Surveying the carnage like he had walked chewing gum in on his favourite rug, Zero sniffed superciliously.

"You three are a mess," he observed. "I'll send Wraith for extraction. We can't have the public seeing you."

Broken glass crunching beneath his impeccably shined brogues, he sauntered to the doorway and away down the corridor. Speechless, the three ferals stared at each other. Clearing his throat, Victor voiced the shared thought.

"What the fuck was that?"


	11. Chapter 11

Victor wanted her, still. Wanted her so badly he imagined he could taste her, as surely as if he had buried his face in her sex. She had been magnificent in Amsterdam, killing with the ease and power of a born hunter. When she had faced him down, ordering him to stop, hair disarrayed, covered in blood, he hated and desired her more than life itself. Lying on his lumpy hotel bed, he ground his teeth, frustrated and horny. Even though he was six doors away, he could hear Jimmy making love to her, hear his grunts and her moaning. When she came, with a shriek, he stumped irritably to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, leaning his burning face against the cool, porcelain tiles. Morosely, he leaned his chin in his clawed hand, realising he had come as close to moping over a woman as he ever had in his long life. Closing his eyes, he bit the inside of his cheek, attempting to chase the feeling with the brief stab of pain.

Tonguing the area, which healed over almost instantaneously, he sighed, feeling the throbbing demand in his crotch. Unzipping his fly, he took out his cock, running his claws lightly from root to tip. Shivering slightly, imagining her hands, recalling her scent when they had fought, peppery, sweet, aroused, he hardened. Jet eyes sliding shut, he stroked himself, feeling his organ thicken and lengthen. He ran his fingertip over the head, the slit opening to expel a tiny bead of moisture. Now ruined by the confrontation with Van Djik's men, he remembered the crimson silk dress, how it left her pale shoulders bare. He recalled the diamonds at her décolleté, sparkling, her hand at his thigh and the kiss on his cheek. It had taken all his self control not to rip the warm silk from her body, despite the fact he knew it had all been for show, for the mission. Or had it?

_She knows, she knows, the fucking little bitch. She's taunting me, daring me to try to take her from Jimmy..._

The rhythm of his hand quickened as he massaged his balls with the other, gasping, one knee braced against the bathroom wall. His head snapped up as the door lock clicked, upper lip skinning back from his great teeth. She stood in the bathroom doorway, draped in a black satin dressing gown, nipples hard points beneath the thin material. Her gaze dropped to his groin, an eyebrow quirking, and she smiled. Victor opened his mouth to snarl, to sneer, to cover his embarrassment, and was totally unprepared when she knelt and took him in her hands. He grunted with surprise, then pleasure as her deft fingers caressed him, dancing along his thick shaft.

Leaning forward, he reached into her robe, filling his eager hands with her breasts, rolling her nipples between thumb and forefinger. She tugged at him, causing him to exclaim with mingled pain and pleasure, eyes narrowing dangerously. Rising up on her knees, she stared challengingly into his face, green eyes blazing. She was not afraid of him, unlike virtually all the other women he had ever known. The thought infuriated and excited him. Growling, he grabbed her elbows, hauling her up into his arms. With two slashes of his claws, he dispensed of the dressing gown, tossing away the silken rags. Burying his face between her breasts, testing the soft flesh with his teeth, he inhaled her scent. Hearing her heart racing, he chuckled, lathing his rough cat tongue across a nipple to hear her gasp.

She took hold of his beard, the hair straining at the roots as she dragged his face to meet hers. Her kiss was savage, tongue forcing past his teeth to steal his breath, arms locked about his neck. One hand dropping to her firm buttock, he squeezed, lifting her thigh to part her legs. His claws left red weals that faded in moments, sliding a finger up and under, feeling her slick wetness. Victor scooted forward, his erection brushing her upper thigh as he tried to pull her down into his lap. Laughing, she slammed him back, hard, skull striking the tiles, spider web cracks racing across the porcelain.

Shaking a chiding finger, she turned and sashayed into the bedroom, crooking a commanding finger at him. Leaping from the toilet seat, he football tackled her to the carpet, sending her sprawled, face down. Lying on top, the rigid length of his cock pressed to the cleft of her backside, lips pressed to the nape of her neck, he breathed quick and hard. She wriggled beneath him, and at first he thought she was attempting to escape. Still, there was no fear in her scent, just arousal, thick, sweet and demanding. Realising what she wanted, he planted his hands palm down and lifted his weight off her. Knees sliding apart, she lifted her pelvis and spread herself, looking back over her shoulder, eyes dark with need.

Cupping her buttocks in his hands, Victor lowered his head and lapped at her, delighted as she cried out and pushed back beneath his ministrations. Intoxicated by her taste, he slid his tongue into her cleft and reached forward, finger bent into a knuckle to keep away his claws. He rubbed against her clit, circling, then back and forth. She growled at him, hips moving, grinding the hood against his fingers. Suddenly, he spanned her waist with both hands, and with a single, hard thrust, entered her. Braced on her palms, she threw back her head and groaned aloud, dark curls spilling down her spine to brush the carpet. Drawing back, he slammed into her, freed by the knowledge he could not injure her, yet chained by the fear her may not satisfy her. Snarling, encouraged by her sobbing his name, Victor consciously let his control slip.

Sweat snaking down his spine, he panted, teeth in her shoulder, her blood metallic on his tongue. Whipped on by her urging of faster, harder, deeper, he obliged, ramming her off her palms, only to snatch her back against his chest. Sucking the pulse at her throat into his mouth, pressing his tongue against the frenetic beat, he folded his arms across her body, imprisoning her. She clawed at him, hips matching his rhythm, breasts bouncing against his forearms. He felt her vulva constrict about him, the quick pulse heralding climax. Increasing his pace, feeling his own orgasm beginning to ignite, white hot tendrils spreading from his scrotum, he roared. Somewhere, he heard her scream, almost begging, his vision fuzzing out as he came.

Lying quietly in Logan's arms, six doors down, his slumbering breaths warm against her neck, Helena Draven opened her eyes with a suppressed shudder. Tying off the last knot of her telepathic programming, a little dizzy at the effort, her mouth watered with sudden nausea and a small, guilty echo of arousal.

_Gotta have insurance, for when the time comes,_ she told herself. _Victor's gonna be the biggest problem when it all hits the fan. Have your wet dream, Creed, let it soak right into your subconscious and shut you down like a robot when I give the word. _

Rolling over, she snuggled closer to Logan, trying to purge herself with the heat of his skin and his satiated, relaxed scent. Six doors up, Victor twitched in his sleep, whimpering into his pillows, lost in his dreams of blood, sex and carnage.


End file.
